^^ 


A; 


y 


> 


*A- 


THE 


rORESTEES. 


A  TALE  OF  DOMESTIC  LIFE. 


BY  TROFESSOR  WILSON, 


AUTHOR    OP   "  UGHTS    AND    SHADOWS    OP    SrOTTTSH   LIFE,"    AND    "  THE   TRIALS 
OP   MARGARET  LYNDSAY.  " 


BOSTON  : 

PUBLISHED    BY    SAXTON    &    KELT. 

NEW    YORK, SAXTON    AND    MILES. 

1845. 


M 

« 


I.    R.   BUTTS,   PRINTER, 
SCHOOL   STREET,    BOSTON. 


AMERICAN   PREFACE. 


The  American  edition  of  the  trials  of  Margaret 
Lyndsay,  having  been  received  Avith  the  strongest 
favor,  has  induced  the  publishers  to  issue  the  For- 
esters, of  the  same  author,  in  a  corresponding  form. 
Like  the  "  Trials,"  it  will  be  found  to  partake  of 
the  same  delicious  pathos,  fidelity  of  character, 
deep  moral  lessons,  and  a  beauty  of  diction,  unsur- 
passed, and  in  admirable  unison  with  the  subject. 
Its  author  has  indeed  a  profound  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart,  and  though  he  principally  delights 
in  depicting  "  the  lowly  joys  and  destinies  ob- 
scure "  of  the  humble  ranks  of  life,  yet,  in  the 
present  tale,  he  has  given  a  brief  and  faithful  por- 
traiture of  the  fashionable  world. 

One  great  merit  that  characterizes  our  author's 
productions  is  their  style  of  sentiment,  widely  dif- 
fering from  the  sickly  and  sentimental  affectation 
that  pervades  the  writings  of  inferior  novelists  — 


4  PREFACE. 

it  is  the  sentiment  of  soul,  the  very  essence  of  ex- 
quisite sensibility ;  and  we  defy  the  most  heartless 
in  perusing  this  beautiful  story,  from  not  having 
his  feelings  keenly  excited,  and  his  heart  expand 
with  better  and  holier  affections  to  his  fellow  men. 

It  is  indeed  difficult  to  say  which  is  the  most 
finished  character  in  the  Foresters  — the  beautiful, 
gentle,  and  spotless  Lucy,  —  the  strong-minded, 
intellectual,  and  afflicted  Michael,  —  the  patient, 
suffering  and  virtuous  Agnes,  —  the  prodigal  and 
lawless  Abel, — the  poor  scholar,  —  the  mild  May 
Morrison,  or  the  noble  Lady  of  the  Hirst.  All  of 
these  are  true  and  touching  pictures  of  life,  and 
yet  so  exquisitely  finished  are  the  smaller  person- 
ages in  the  drama,  that  any  attempt  in  assigning  to 
either  a  precedence  in  merit,  would  be  a  nugatory 
and  hypercritical  task. 

Like  the  "  Trials  of  Margaret  Lyndsay,'-  the 
scenes  and  characters  are,  for  the  most  part,  laid  in 
Scotland,  and,  consequently,  the  author  has  done 
them  ample  justice.  One  portion  of  the  story, 
however,  takes  place  in  Cumberland,  in  England, 
on  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  lake  of  Windermere, 
where  is  situated  the  author's  delightful  resi- 
dence of  Elleray.  It  is  well  known  that  in  his 
poems,  and  some  of  his  other  productions,  he  has 
celebrated  the  scenery  of  this  beautiful  region  ;  yet, 
in  our  humble  opinion,  it  has  never  been  so  felici- 
tously and  poetically  depicted  as  in  the  pages  of 


PREFACE.  O 

the  Foresters ;  while,  to  those  who  are  curious  of 
acquiring  a  knowledge  of  this  far-famed  portion  of 
England,  where  have  resided  some  of  the  first  of 
our  modern  poets,  the  founders  of  what  is  termed 
the  "  Lake  School  of  Poetry,"  we  would  recommend 
its  perusal. 

As,  we  believe,  this  is  the  first  American  edition 
of  the  work,  we  trust  it  will  meet  with  a  hearty 
welcome,  and  that  every  parent  will  give  it  a  place 
in  his  family  ;  calculated  as  it  is  to  diffuse  moral 
and  religious  principles  through  the  medium  of 
a  beautiful  domestic  story.  Such  are,  indeed, 
books,  and  their  authors  the  best  friends  of  hu- 
manity—  they  can  never  perish  —  they  depend  not 
on  the  fashion  of  the  world,  and  cannot  be  out  of 
date,  till  the  dreams  of  young  imagination  shall 
vanish,  and  the  deepest  sympathies  of  love  and 
hope  be  chilled.  "  For,  while  other  works  are  ex- 
tolled, admired  and  reviewed,  these  will  be  loved 
and  wept  over.  Gentle  hearts  shall  ever  blend 
their  thoughts  of  his  among  their  remembrances 
of  the  benefactors  of  tiieir  youth.  And  when  the 
favor  of  the  world  'shall  hang  upon  the  beauty  of 
their  hearts,'  how  often  will  their  spirits  turn  to 
him,  who,  as  he  cast  a  soft  seriousness  over  the 
morning  of  life,  shall  assist  in  tranquillizing  its 
noon-tide  sorrows."  r.   h. 


1* 


THE   FOEESTERS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Of  the  humble  mansions  that,  not  many  years  ago,  were 
thickly  interspersed  through  the  romantic  scenery  of  the 
Esk,  between  Roslin  and  Lassvvade,  there  was  not  one 
more  l)eaiilirLil  than  that  which  bore  the  appropriate 
name  of  Dovenest.  It  was  built  on  a  gentle  eminence, 
that  merely  lifted  it  in  safety  above  the  highest  water- 
mark of  the  river,  sweeping  round  the  little  sylvan  penin- 
sula ;  and  the  breath  of  smoke  that  rose  from  its  hidden 
chimneys  was,  even  on  the  calmest  day,  lost  on  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  overshadowing  wood,  before  it  could  reach 
the  naked  cliff  that  rose  like  a  pillar  into  the  sky. 
Several  glades,  and  even  pasture  fields,  lay  concealed  at 
no  great  distance  up  and  down  the  stream  ;  and  a  few 
steps  could,  in  either  direction,  lead  into  prospects  of 
contined  but  richest  cultivation,  where  the  houses  of  the 
more  opulent  looked  out  cheerfully,  each  over  its  own 
quiet  pleasure  ground,  nor  seemed,  in  their  unostenta- 
tious retirement,  at  all  out  of  unison  with  the  character 
of  the  solitary  or  clustering  cottages  of  the  poorer  in- 
habitants. But  for  a  fantastic  projection  of  rock,  with 
its  crown  of  drooping  birch  trees,  Dovenest  would  have 
commanded  a  view  of  the  caverned  cliffs  of  Hawthorn- 
den,  and  indeed,  even  of  Roslin  Chapel.  Although  the 
castle  was  not  visible,  the  rooks  were  seen  flying  over 


O  THE    FORESTERS. 

its  turrrets;  and,  on  a  calm  day,  the  noise  of  the  linn 
was  heard  below  the  toundations  of  the  old  place  of 
worship.  The  village  Sabbath  bell  sent  its  voice  so 
distinctly  down  the  glen,  that  it  sometimes  seemed  to  be 
ringing  close  to  the  very  cottage  ;  and,  on  a  warm,  still 
summer's  day,  there  was  but  one  sound  of  bees  from  the 
broomy  knoll  of  Dovenest,  to  the  wallflowers  on  the 
crevices  of  that  hallowed  ruin.  There  was  felt  to  be 
a  little  quiet  world  within  itself;  and  the  same  stream, 
the  same  rocks,  the  same  line  of  sky,  bound  together, 
cottage,  chapel,  and  castle,  in  one  spirit  of  harmonious 
beauty. 

Dovenest  was  not  a  summer  retreat  for  lawyer,  citizen, 
or  poet,  although  it  had  often  been  coveted  both  by 
matter-of-fact  and  imaginative  men,  and  its  architecture 
been  made  to  undergo  frequent  alterations  in  the  day 
dreams  of  tasteful  artists;  but  it  had  been  for  thirty 
years  the  dwelling  of  its  obscure  and  industrious  owner, 
Adam  Forester,  a  gardener.  Adam  Forester  had  been 
proud  of  that  humble  professional  name  in  the  prime 
of  life,  when  his  good  spade  was  his  ordy  fortune  :  and 
he  desired  no  better,  in  after  times,  when  by  skill,  la- 
bour, and  integrity,  he  had  accumulated  sufficient  capital 
to  purchise  that  pretty  little  property,  and  by  degrees, 
spring  after  spring,  had  made  his  nursery  garden  the 
pride  of  all  the  glen,  and,  to  idlers  from  the  city,  one  of 
its  rarest  and  luost  delightful  attractions.  The  southern 
bank,  which  he  had  cleared  from  the  embosoming  wood, 
seeuied  to  enjoy  perpetual  sunshine;  and  so  happily 
sheltered  was  it  by  natural  mounds  and  battlements, 
that  often  while  there  was  a  storm  among  the  oaks  above, 
not  a  blossom  was  shaken  from  its  fruit  trees  ;  and  the 
blackl)ird  continued  to  sing  undisturbed  from  the  top  of 
the  steady  larch  that' rose  single  from  a  grass-plat  in 
the  middle  of  the  garden.  That  larch  was  famous 
duritig  early  spring,  in  the  perfect  beauty  of  its  tapering 
verdure,  and  glowing  with  a  million  cones  of  purple  that 
lay  profusely  scattered  over  the  long  graceful  btanches  that 
swept  the  mossy  floor,  up  to  the  slender  last  year's  shoot 
that  scarcely  supported  the  blithsome  songster.      Nothing 


THE    FORESTERS.  9 

could  surpass  the  order  and  regularity  prevalent  over 
the  parterres  of  flowers,  the  beds  of  seedlings,  and  the 
wider  banks  of  infant  forest  trees,  already  distinguish- 
able in  shape  and  hue  of  leaf,  stalk,  and  tendril,  but  all 
equally  unlike  the  gigantic  forms  they  were  destined  one 
day  to  become  in  park  or  mountain.  The  spirit  of  young 
vegetable  life  wantoned  everywhere  around,  below  the 
shadow  of  the  ancient  woods  ;  and  old  Adam  Forester, 
the  gardener,  unconsciously  loved  the  flowers  and  plants, 
among  a  constant  succession  of  which  he  had  spent  up- 
wards of  forty  not  unhappy  years.  He  had  not  reached 
his  time  of  life  without  some  heavy  griefs;  but  when  he 
went  out  to  muse  at  eventide,  he  felt,  like  the  patriarch 
of  old,  that  God  had  to  him  been  a  God  of  mercy,  and 
thought  with  profound  peace  of  mind  on  the  hour,  now 
assuredly  near  at  hand,  when  he  should  be  laid  in  the 
same  grave  with  the  mother  of  his  children  —  her  whom 
he  had  buried  twenty  years  ago,  but  whose  image  had 
been  with  him,  to  support  and  console,  duly  and  without 
fail,  at  morning  and  evening  prayers. 

Adam  Forester  had  enjoyed  more  of  pure  and  real 
happiness  than  often  falls  to  the  lot  of  man  in  his  con- 
dition of  life,  although,  perhaps,  that  be  sometimes  the 
very  happiest  condition  in  the  world.  His  mind,  origi- 
nally one  of  strength  and  sensibility,  had  received  that 
best  of  all  education  —  the  education  which  untempted 
and  unperverted  nature  bestows  upon  itself,  during  em- 
ployment that  is  laborious  but  not  slavish,  and  during 
leisure  that  is  free  for  much  thoughtfulness  at  least,  if 
not  for  systematic  study,  in  the  interval  benignly  provid- 
ed between  the  two  twilights  for  the  refreshment  and 
restoration  of  every  human  soul.  From  youth  to  man- 
hood, and  from  manhood  to  age,  he  had  always  been 
bettering  his  worldly  circumstances :  he  had  never  made 
a  single  retrograde  step  in  his  lowly  well-doing;  and, 
while  many  whom  he  acknowledged  to  be  better  than 
himself  had  suflered  sore  chances  and  changes,  going 
down  in  trouble  to  untimely  graves,  and  others  had,  in 
some  few  instances,  become  absolute  paupers  from  vice 
or  misfortune,  he  had  thankfully  enjoyed   continual  inr. 


10  THE    FORESTERS. 

crease  of  prosperity,  and  along  with  it  an  enlargement  loo 
of  heart  that  enabled  him  to  feel  the  blessing  af  Provi- 
dence. Although  he  lived  in  a  thatched  house,  with 
such  temperate  appetites  as  its  frugal  hearth  could  easily 
supply  —  wore  on  work  days  the  mean  but  decent  apparel 
of  a.  labourer  —  opened  his  Bible  with  a  hand  that  labor 
had  hardened  —  sat  on  the  sabbath  in  a  pew  among  poor 
people  —  interchanged  greetings  on  a  footing  of  perfect 
equality  with  every  honest  individual  of  that  class  to 
whom,  by  his  birth,  he  belonged  —  and  required  for  the 
daily  sustenance  of  his  unambitious  heart  only  the  simple 
converse  of  working  men  —  yet,  Adam  Forester  was  not 
altosether  a  stranger  to  the  society  of  persons  occupying 
the  more  elevated  stations  of  this  life,  nor  in  that  society 
did  he  miss  the  respect  due  to  his  estimable  character. 
In  the  way  of  his  profession,  he  had  become  known  to 
many  men  of  wealth  and  rank  ;  and  the  plain  dignity  of 
his  manners,  especially  as  age  began  to  add  to  the 
lineaments  of  his  countenance,  that  power  of  reverence 
which  is  superior  to  that  of  every  mere  artificial  distinc- 
tion, was  acknowledged  by  all  who  had  sense  to  discern 
and  appreciate  the  natural  and  unalienable  authority  of 
intelligence  and  virtue. 

Dovenest,  therefore,  although  thus  beautiful  in  its  own 
seemingly  romantic  world,  had  never  been  the  scene  of 
any  other  joys  and  sorrows  than  such  as  belong  neces- 
sarily and  essentially  to  human  nature  in  every  condition. 
The  worthy  owner  had  suffered  many  domestic  afflictions, 
but  all  in  the  common  course  of  nature  ;  and  with  a 
wife  who  tenderly  and  reverently  loved  him,  and  had 
discharged  every  duty  towards  him  and  their  children 
in  joyfulness  and  gratitude,  he  had  lived  many  long 
peaceful  yeais.  During  those  years  an  infant  —  a  child 
—  one  blooming  girl  —  a  boy  of  much  promise  —  and, 
saddest  loss  of  all,  a  son  grown  up  to  manhood  —  had 
been  taken  away,  suddenly,  or  after  lingering  decay. 
Five  funerals  had  there  indeed  been,  before  that  blackest 
of  them  all,  when  the  mother  was  carried  to  her  rest. 
But  these  deprivations  had  been  scattered  over  the  length 
of  full  thirty  years.     Mercifully  timed,  it  might  be  said. 


THE    FORESTERS.  1  1 

had  been  the  visits  of  the  angel  of  death.  And  although 
there  not  unfrequently  iiad  been  seasons  when  smiles, 
or  at  least  any  thing  approaching  to  laughter,  would  have 
grated  against  the  heart-strings  of  the  whole  saddened 
family,  and  when  it  almost  seemed  as  if  their  happiness 
were  never  more  to  deserve  that  name,  yet  natural 
distress  gradually  yielded  to  natural  comfort,  and  the 
survivors  carried  over  upon  one  another,  and  into  one 
another's  hearts,  the  affection  that  had  belonged  to  them 
that  were  no  more  seen,  except  in  the  startling  visions 
of  sudden  waking  recollection,  or  in  the  dreams  of  sleep. 
Even  the  affliction  that  made  Adam  Forester  a  wid- 
ower, brought  with  it  healing  upon  its  wings.  For, 
when  his  Judith  died,  she  was  not  cut  off  suddenly  in 
the  prime  of  life,  nor  did  she  pine  away  in  its  fall;  but, 
after  the  gray  hairs  had  been  visibly  mingled  with  the 
once  bright  brown,  an  illness,  neither  frightfully  siiort 
nor  tryingly  prolonged,  extinguished  the  lamp  of  life 
that  burned  clearly  to  the  close;  and,  with  all  the  most 
anxious  solicitudes  of  a  mother's  heart  at  rest,  she  was 
resigned  to  shut  her  eyes  upon  her  husband  and  her  two 
dutiful  sons.  Her  sober  matronly  steps  and  (juiet  smiles 
were  no  more  seen,  and,  in  a  few  years,  generally  for- 
gotten. But,  in  not  a  few  neighboring  families,  lier 
image  remained,  as  if  her  picture  had  liung  upon  the 
wall  ;  and  the  poor  continued  to  bleps  her  who  had  not 
only  relieved  their  hunger,  but  had  given  charity  to 
their  friendless  soids.  The  lines  of  l.ibor  and  advancing 
age  were  painfully  deepened  on  the  widower's  face  during 
the  year  she  left  him,  and  the  neighbors  all  prognosti- 
cated that  he  would  never  recover  the  blow.  But  theirs 
was  a  common  mistake  ;  the  old  man  was  not  forsaken 
in  his  bereavement  ;  in  a  few  weeks  he  took  his  place 
in  his  pew  in  the  kirk  ;  the  lark  called  him  to  his  garden, 
not,  perhaps,  from  such  sleep  as  he  had  once  enjoyed  ; 
and  although  they  who  knew  him  intimately  saw  a 
change  in  all  his  demeanor,  and  heard  a  difference  in 
the  usual  tones  of  his  speech,  yet,  to  indifferent  observers, 
he  was  the  same  active,  industrious,  old  man  as  before. 
Nor  did  Dovenest   undergo   any    perceptible  diminution 


12  THE    FORESTEKS. 

of  its  cheerful  neatness,  except  that  there  seemed  about 
it  a  less  gorgeous  flush  of  flowers  than  formerly,  and 
that  the  lustre  of  the  latticed  windows  was  not  so  spot- 
less, and  somewhat  more  thickly  overgrown,  now  that 
one  pruning  hand  was  cold.  But  Adam  Forester,  in 
his  more  awful  hours,  was  not  without  a  source  of  com- 
fort, that  every  year  flowed  deeper  and  deeper  in  the 
midnight  silence;  while,  in  his  ordinary  work  day  life 
in  the  open  air,  he  had  the  best  of  earthly  solaces,  in  a 
fair  reputation,  health  yet  unimpaired,  a  sound  under- 
standing, and  a  clear  conscience  ;  a  sufficient  competence 
against  the  evil  of  eld,  two  dutiful  sons,  and,  above  all, 
the  love  of  labor,  strong  as  that  of  life  itself,  that  sub- 
dues within  the  heart  a  thousand  vain  anxieties,  and 
changes  the  stern  law  of  necessity,  against  which  many 
fruitlessly  rebel,  into  the  voluntary  choice  of  a  calm  and 
well-ordered  life. 

On  the  death  of  his  wife,  Adam  Forester  had  been 
left  with  two  sons,  Michael  and  Abel.  They  had  both 
received  a  regular  education,  and  possessed  more  than 
ordinary  abilities.  Michael  had,  at  one  time,  thought 
of  becoming  a  clergyman,  and  had  attended  the  univer- 
sity ;  but,  on  his  mother's  death,  he  felt  it  to  be  impos- 
sible to  leave  his  father  alone,  and  being  fonder  every 
month  of  that  way  of  life,  and  deeply  attached  to  the 
place  of  his  birth,  he  resolved  to  follow  his  father's 
employment,  and  had  now  done  so  for  many  years.  He 
was  a  man  of  staid  deportment  and  quiet  manners,  but 
of  deep  and  strong  feelings  —  it  may,  indeed,  be  said  pas- 
sions —  and  of  extraordinary  strength  of  intellect.  But 
he  had  no  worldly  ambition,  and  was  satisfied  to  live 
the  same  homely  and  obscure  life  with  his  father.  He 
was  enough  of  a  scholar  to  be  able  to  read  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments  in  their  original  tongues ;  and  his 
favorite  studies,  next  to  theology,  circumscribed  as  they 
necessarily  became,  were  natural  history  and  astronomy. 
Each  year  brought,  independently  of  reading,  its  own 
irrowth  of  inward  knowledge;  and  Michael  f^orester  of 
Dovenest,  had  long  been  esteemed  the  first  man  in  all 
the  neighborhood    for  general   talents,   and  sound   prac- 


THE    FORESTERS.  13 

tical  information  in  the  business  of  life.  His  whole 
appearance  betokened  no  ordinary  character  ;  and,  al- 
though he  did  not  purposely  keep  aloof  from  the  young 
men  of  the  place,  his  infinite  and  unapproachable  supe- 
riority was  felt  by  them  all,  and  he  was  looked  upon  as 
the  equal  of  the  parish  minister,  and  other  persons  of 
education  and  authority.  Proud  was  the  old  man  of 
such  a  son,  but  it  was  a  pride  that  now  and  then  only 
made  its  way  into  a  heart  fortified  with  a  far  higher  prin- 
ciple —  that  of  religious  gratitude  ;  and,  as  they  worked 
in  their  garden  together,  the  gray-headed  father  would 
sometimes  rest  his  withered  hand  on  his  spade,  and, 
leaning  over  it  as  if  to  pause  from  his  work,  bless  his 
son  in  a  fervent  prayer,  nor  care  if  his  dim  eyes  poured 
down  upon  the  ground  a  shower  of  passionate  tears. 
Working  together,  day  after  day,  from  morning  to  night, 
and  sitting  together  every  evening,  there  was  often  long 
silence  between  them,  but  never  any  dearth  of  inward 
thoughts ;  and  eacli  heart  was  as  fertile  of  affectionate 
feelings  as  the  soil  of  the  garden  beneath  the  common 
labor  of  their  hands.  The  very  helplessness  of  old  age 
was  felt  to  be  a  happy  state  in  the  presence  of  such  a 
protector ;  and,  when  the  old  man  would  lay  himself 
down,  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  sycamores,  for  a  single  hour  of  rest,  reluctantly 
availing  himself  of  the  privilege  of  threescore  and  ten 
years,  his  closing  eyes  could  not  help  seeing,  in  his 
dutiful  son,  as  it  were  the  figure  of  an  angel  watching 
over  his  sleep. 

Abel,  the  younger  brother,  although  now  far  less 
deserving  than  Michael,  was,  notwithstanding,  almost 
as  dear  to  his  father  ;  for  strong  instinctive  affection  will 
not  yield  to  the  law  of  descent,  and  the  frailties,  the 
follies,  and  even  sins  of  children,  will  often  mournfully 
endear  them  to  their  parents.  Abel,  too,  in  face,  in 
eyes,  the  color  of  hair,  and  the  tone  of  voice,  was  the 
very  image  of  his  mother  ;  and  grievous  as  had  been  his 
misconduct,  that  overpowering  resemblance  had  never 
pleaded  for  him  in  vain.  There  was  also  much  that  was 
redeeming  in  his  amiable  but  uncertain  character  ;  and 
2 


14  THE    FORESTERS. 

how  could  a  father  long  retain  wrath,  or  even  strong 
displeasure  towards  one  so  ready  to  repent,  so  warm  in 
his  affections,  and,  when  away  from  evil  associates,  so 
perfectly  winning  in  all  his  ways,  and  so  reconciled  even 
to  an  active  and  industrious  life?  Lively,  versatile, 
and  increnious  —  he  was,  indeed,  when  at  home,  the  light 
and  the  music  of  the  house  and  garden;  and  the  old  man 
thought,  and  still  thought,  and  fondly  deluded  himself 
into  conviction,  often  broken  and  as  often  repaired,  that 
Abel  was  about  to  reform,  and  to  become  a  credit  to  him, 
like  Michael,  in  his  declining  days.  Although  Abel  had 
not  yet  absolutely  disgraced  himself  by  any  dishonest  or 
dishonorable  action,  a  mist  hung  over  his  reputation 
both  in  town  and  country  ;  his  few  known  associates 
were  persons  of  profligate  habits ;  rumors  were  afloat 
in  the  neighborhood  of  an  indefinite,  but  distressing 
kind  ;  and  it  was  the  belief  of  all  that,  ere  long,  he 
would  bring  himself  to  disgrace  and  ruin.  His  father 
tried  to  shut  both  his  eyes  and  his  ears,  but  still  he  saw 
and  heard  enough  to  fill  his  mind  with  dismal  appre- 
hensions ;  and,  now  that  all  the  past  was  peace  —  now 
that  he  could  look,  not  only  without  one  single  pang  on 
the  gravestone  above  his  Judith,  and  the  other  five 
dead  ones,  all  of  them  long  ago  so  tenderly  beloved,  but 
even  with  the  profound  satisfaction  of  expecting  rest  — 
he  felt  it  cruel  to  be  disturbed,  almost  at  death's  door, 
by  a  son  to  whom  he  had  been,  perhaps,  but  too  indul- 
gent, and  whose  errors  seemed,  month  after  month,  to 
be  darkening  into  wickedness.  O  that  Abel  were  re- 
formed !  thought  often  the  old  man  —  and  that  prayer  was 
sometimes  worded  in  his  sleep  —  then  might  I  yield  up 
my  spirit  to  its  Maker!  Abel  knew  well  his  father's 
grief,  and  often  wept  bitterly,  like  a  child,  before  his 
tremulous  rebuke  —  too  like  a  child,  for  his  tears  were 
soon  dried  ;  gay  smiles,  too  delightful  to  a  forgiving  fa- 
ther, took  their  place,  and,  after  the  deep  but  transient 
calm  of  reconcilement  which  Abel  had  a  heart  tender 
enough  to  feel,  but  not  firm  enough  to  remember,  away 
he  flew  like  a  bird,  and  disappeared,  for  months,  in  the 
unknown  dissipation  and   vice  of  the  city.     "  My  boy 


THE    FORESTERS.  15 

loves  me  as  kindly  as  ever,  but  he  reverences  me  no 
more,  and  my  power  over  him  is  but  as  of  a  shadow.  O 
Michael!  when  1  am  dead,  try  to  save  poor  Abel ;  for  if 
evil  befall  him,  methinks  my  bones  will  not  rest  in  the 
grave !." 

Such  words  as  these  were  not  lost  upon  Michael  ;  for, 
independently  of  his  filial  reverence,  he  loved  his  brother 
Abel  with  exceeding  affection.  Indeed,  the  very  differ- 
ence in  their  characters,  pursuits,  and  habits,  endeared 
them  to  each  other  ;  and  while  the  elder  brother  could 
not  help  being  won  by  that  mirth  and  merriment,  that 
frolic  and  whim,  so  foreign  to  his  own  nature,  but  so 
congenial  with  the  whole  frame  of  Abel's,  that  unthink- 
ing boy  could  not  but  venerate  in  Michael  that  irreproach- 
able practice  and  those  uncompromising  principles  in 
whic+i  he  found  himself  to  be  so  deplorably  deficient  in 
the  hour  of  trial.  The  disparity  in  their  age  also,  (for 
Michael  was  the  elder  by  upwards  of  ten  years,)  gave  an 
endearing  character  to  their  mutual  affection.  It  had 
always  preserved  between  them  an  unbroken  integrity  of 
feeling,  without  the  deadening  or  alienating  interruptions 
of  jealous  or  angry  moods.  Abel  no  more  thought  of 
ever  quarrelling  with  Michael  than  with  his  father  him- 
self; and  if  ever  Michael  had  occasion  to  chide  or  re- 
prove] him,  the  remonstrance  was  indeed  fatherly,  in 
spirit  and  in  word,  tempered  at  the  same  time  by  the 
sense  of  the  feebler  authority  of  brotherhood,  and  breath- 
ed forth  as  a  confidential  communication  between  friend 
and  friend. 

"You  must  not  think  that  I  love  Abel  better  than  you, 
Michael,  although  sometimes  it  would  even  seem  as  if  the 
dear  unhappy  boy  did  indeed  drive  you  out  of  my  heart. 
No  —  no  —  no  —  you,  Michael,  are  my  best  beloved  son 
—  boy,  lad,  and  man  the  same  —  true  at  all  times  to  me, 
your  aged  father,  and  to  your  God.  If  ever  I  have  been 
silent,  cold,  harsh,  or  sullen  towards  you,  my  son,  I  ask 
your  forgiveness,  for,  in  truth,  age  chills  even  something 
of  the  warmth  at  a  father's  heart." 

The  father  and  son  were  sitting  together  on  a  bench  in 
a  sort  of  small  natural  arbor  that  faced  the  light  of  the 


16  THE    FORESTERS. 

setting  sun  ;  and  as  Michael  looked  on  the  old  man's 
face,  he  felt  that  he  had  never  before  noticed  the  wrinkles 
so  deep,  nor  seen  over  all  his  countenance  so  strong  a 
shadow  of  the  world  to  come.  He  knelt  down  and  asked 
a  blessinof.  Tenderness  and  awe  were  like  a  religion  in 
his  spirit;  and  as  the  withered  hands  were  laid  upon  his 
head,  he  felt  as  if  a  human  parent  were  interceding  for 
him  with  a  divine,  and  that  such  prayers  would  not  be 
unheard  in  heaven.  At  that  moment  light  footsteps  were 
heard,  and  Abel  stood  before  the  opening  of  the  arbor. 

There  was  a  wild  and  unsettled  expression  in  his  eyes, 
a  feverish  flush  over  his  cheeks,  and  his  whole  demeanor 
was  disturbed.  Self-dissatisfaction  and  shame,  mixed 
with  an  angry  recklessness,  sadly  obscured  that  face  on 
which,  a  few  years  ago,  every  one  that  knew  it  looked 
with  pleasure  and  affection.  Yet  the  unhappy  youth 
could  not  now  divest  himself  of  that  respect,  that  vene- 
ration with  which  he  had  from  his  very  heart  always 
treated  his  father.  The  scowl  which  he  had  summoned 
to  his  brow  gave  way  before  the  solemn  look  of  the  old 
man's  dim  eyes,  and,  struck  at  once  into  remorse  for  the 
mere  show  of  disrespect  to  his  father,  Abel  hung  down 
his  head  and  wept.  When  he  found  voice,  he  said  — 
"  Father,  I  am  going  to  leave  Dovenest  for  good  and  all, 
and  to-morrow  I  set  off  for  England  with  Will  Mansell. 
You  must  not  ask  me  any  questions  —  I  could  not  think 
of  going  without  coming  to  ask  your  forgiveness  and 
your  blessing."  The  old  man,  who  had  long  feared  the 
worst  of  his  son,  now  felt  that  the  worst  had  almost  be- 
fallen him  ;  for  Mansell  was  a  man  of  a  ruined  reputation, 
and  known  to  be  familiar  with  criminals.  "  Yes  —  yes  — 
Abel,  here  is  my  blessing  —  and  my  forgiveness  ;"  and  the 
old  man  rose  up  and  kissed  his  undutiful  son,  with  many 
tears.  Meanwhile,  Michael  retired  a  short  distance  from 
the  arbor,  and  when  he  returned  totake  farewell  of  his 
brother,  Abel  was  gone.  "O  Michael,  when  I  am  dead 
—  and  this  parting  has  taken  some  months  friim  the  year 
I  might  have  had  to  live  —  never  lose  your  pity  for  Abel, 
for  much  I  fear  will  he  stand  in  need  of  pity,  hurrying 
on  to  disgrace  or  destruction."     "  My  brother  shall  never 


THE    FORESTERS,  '17 

want,"  said  Michael,  "while  these  hands  have  strength 
to  work  —  while  there  is  water  in  the  channel  of  the  Esk, 
and  corn  grows  upon  its  banks.  But  I  will  go  after  him, 
and  perhaps  he  will  return  to  his  father's  house." — "No, 
Michael;  he  will  never  return;  never  in  my  time,  at 
least  —  and  if  he  does  return,  it  will  be  as  a  wretched 
beggar  —  ay,  worse  than  a  beggar,  a  criminal  —  flying 
perhaps  from  justice,  and  his  life  forfeit  to  the  law." 

That  severe  passion  of  grief  did  not,  however,  endure 
long  in  a  heart  that,  in  all  its  sufferings,  had  found  what 
strength  there  is  in  submission.  The  old  man  hearkened 
to  comfort  from  his  elder  son,  and  tried  to  convince  him- 
self that  his  fears  might  prove  to  have  been  altogether 
ungrounded.  And  a  letter  from  Abel,  about  a  month 
after,  written  in  a  kind  and  cheerful  spirit,  restored  him 
apparently  to  his  usual  composure,  so  that  it  might  be 
said  that  Dovenest  was  again  happy. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Among  the  lowly  households  closely  connected  in 
ancient  friendship  with  the  family  at  Dovenest,  there  was 
none  so  dear  on  any  account  as  that  of  Sprinkeld  —  a  cot- 
tage that  stood  by  itself  in  a  sheltered  holm,  a  few 
fields  from  Lasswade.  It  had  been  built  by  a  native  of 
the  village,  a  prosperous  tradesman,  who  died  in  the 
prime  of  life,  leaving  a  widow  and  one  daughter.  His 
widow  did  not  long  survive  him  ;  and  the  child  was  left 
to  the  care  of  a  female  relation  who  had  resided  in  the 
family,  and  who  loved  the  orphan,  Agnes  Hay,  as  ten- 
derly as  if  she  had  been  her  mother.  This  excellent 
person  had  lost  her  husband  many  years  before,  and  had 
no  children.  Her  whole  income  consisted  of  the  very 
moderate  jointure  which  she  enjoyed  as  the  widow  of  a 
clergyman,  from  the  best  of  all  charitable  institutions; 
2* 


18  THE    FORESTERS, 

but  this,  added  to  the  little  fortune  of  her  ward,  was  a 
complete  independence,  and  enabled  them  to  lead  the 
same  life  to  which  they  had  been  accustomed,  without 
difficulty  or  privation.  Agnes  Hay  had,  therefore,  never 
felt  what  it  is  to  be  an  orphan.  She  had  lost  both  her 
parents  before  she  was  eight  years  old  ;  and  at  that  inno- 
cent and  joyful  age,  less  than  one  single  summer  suffices 
to  wipe  away  the  bitterest  tears,  although  their  source  is 
still  left  open  in  the  unpainful  affection  of  the  heart. 
Perhaps  those  early  afflictions  gave  a  somewhat  deeper 
tone  of  pensiveness  to  a  character  naturally  thoughtful 
and  sedate ;  and,  no  doubt,  the  remembrances  of  her 
dead  parents  survived  more  distinctly  and  tenderly  in 
that  retired  and  almost  solitary  life.  Being  an  only  child, 
and  having  had  few  playmates,  her  thoughts  and  feelings 
naturally  reverted  to  the  past,  so  that  the  bygone  happi- 
ness of  her  childhood  was  never  entirely  forgotten,  but 
continued  to  blend  itself  with  all  those  unsought  enjoy- 
ments which  nature  graciously  provides  for  the  expand- 
ing affections.  Few  incidents  or  events  had  occurred 
to  diversify  her  calm  and  contented  life,  nor  had  any 
strong  emotions  ever  disturbed  the  tranquillity  of  her 
innocence.  Each  succeeding  Sabbath  found  her  humbly 
trusting  in  that  contrite  spirit  which  even  the  most  inno- 
cent must  feel  when  joining  in  the  services  of  religion ; 
and  weeks,  months,  and  years  had  glided  by,  leaving  her 
now  in  the  prime  of  youth,  a  favorite  with  all  the  families 
in  the  neighborhood,  even  with  those  to  whom  she  was 
hardly  more  known  than  by  appearance  or  name  ;  while 
at  those  firesides  where  she  was  a  familiar  guest,  she  was 
beloved  with  a  perfect  love  for  all  those  delightful  endow- 
ments that  showed  themselves  more  attractively  in  the 
unconscious  simplicity  of  her  mild  and  gentle  manners, 
and  almost  veiled  her  beauty  itself  under  that  charm  of 
character  which,  belonging  peculiarly  to  the  gifted  indi- 
vidual, is  felt  to  be  at  once  permanent  and  irresistible. 

Neither  Michael  Forester  nor  Agnes  Hay  knew  that 
they  were  in  love  with  each  other.  Indeed,  for  two  or 
three  years  past,  it  had  almost  seemed  as  if  there  had 
been  some  slight   shadow  thrown  over  the  friendship  of 


THE    FORESTERS.  19 

the  two  families.  Accidental  causes,  such  as  will  often 
arise  in  the  least  varied  lot,  had  made  the  footpath  less 
frequently  trodden  that  led  from  Dovenest  to  Sprinkeld. 
But  where  there  is  sincere  and  well-founded  mutual  affec- 
tion in  good  hearts,  it  remains  unimpaired  among  all 
hindrances,  interruptions,  or  absence.  Pleasant  remem- 
brances of  words  and  looks  supply  the  place  of  actual 
interchanges  of  kindness ;  and,  perhaps,  the  softened 
images  of  innocent  delight,  returning  of  their  own  ac- 
cord upon  our  hearts,  do  more  than  anything  else  in  this 
world  to  attach  us  to  those  with  whom  that  delight  had 
been  enjoyed.  Agnes  Hay  was  frequently  hearing  the 
character  of  Michael  Forester  spoken  of  by  those  whom 
she  most  respected  in  terms  of  the  highest  praise —  his 
talents,  his  industry,  his  uprightness,  and,  what  was  even 
more  touching  to  her  heart  than  them  all,  his  filial  piety, 
and  his  fond  attachment  to  his  infatuated  brother.  Some- 
times she  thought  what  happiness  it  would  have  been 
had  she  been  his  daughter,  or  his  sister,  or  any  near 
blood  relation,  so  that  she  might  have  had  the  privileges 
of  an  inmate  of  his  household.  She  had,  indeed,  scarcely 
one  single  relation  living  but  Aunt  Isobel,  as  she  had  called 
from  her  infancy  the  good  t)l(i  lady  who  was  her  protec- 
tress. Such  thoughts  passed  through  her  heart  oftener 
than  she  was  aware,  but  without  any  disturbance  of  feel- 
ing; for,  although  she  interchanged  affectionate  greet- 
ings with  Michael  Forester  every  Sabbath  at  church,  and 
not  unfrequently  saw  him  on  ordinary  week-day  occa- 
sions, her  heart  was  entirely  free  from  passion.  Never 
had  she  fallen  into  one  single  vain  dream  of  him  and  his 
dwelling;  so  that  had  he  married  another,  it  did  not 
seem  to  Agnes  that  such  an  event  would  have  affected, 
or  at  least  diminished  the  happiness  of  her  contented 
life.  And  yet,  when  Aunt  Isobel,  in  speaking  of  liis 
excellence,  had  once  said,  what  a  happy  woman  would 
be  the  wife  of  Michael  Forester,  Agnes  had  unconsciously 
turned  away  her  face;  and,  as  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell 
upon  the  geraniums  in  all  their  rich  and  variegated  glow 
which  she  had  received  from  him,  and  had  tended  with 
assiduous  care,  as  she  herself  thought,  entirely  for  the 
rke  of  their  own  beauty. 


20  THE    FORESTERS. 

With  Michael  Forester  the  case  was  somewhat  differ- 
ent. He  was  fifteen  years  older  than  Agnes  ;  and  al- 
though the  growing  charms  of  her  womanhood  had 
gradually  inspired  him  with  far  other  feelings  than  those 
with  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  the  pretty 
little  child  that  he  had  often  led  by  the  hand  through  his 
gardens,  and  sent  away,  happy  as  a  fairy,  with  a  bunch 
of  flowers,  yet  a  sense  of  the  disparity  of  years,  which  to 
him  seemed  far  greater  than  it  was  in  reality,  kept  down, 
as  if  it  were  even  in  his  conscience,  any  fonder  affection 
for  Agnes  as  she  had  been  stealing  into  the  beauty  of  her 
prime.  It  seemed  impossible  that  she  could  love  him ; 
and  that  belief  in  the  mind  of  such  a  man,  overcame  all 
vain  hopes,  and  reconciled  him,  without  much  pain, 
to  the  thought  of  some  day  seeing  Agnes  Hay  the  wife 
of  another.  He  therefore  strove  with  himself,  and  not 
altogether  unsuccessfully,  not  indeed  to  abstain  from  her 
society,  for  that  was  impossible,  but  to  regard  her  at  all 
times  as  one  to  whom  he  could  never  be  more  than 
a  friend,  or  a  brother,  or  a  father.  Sometimes,  in  the 
quiet  of  a  beautiful  summer  evening,  when,  in  his  silent 
leisure,  his  mind  unconsciously  framed  pictures  of  the 
future,  he  felt  that  to  Anges  Hay  he  could  be  all  these, 
and  more,  far  more  than  them  all ;  that  to  see  her  beau- 
tiful countenance  at  that  lattice  window —  her  delightful 
figure  walking  along  that  green  —  her  white  arms  em- 
ployed in  training  the  roses  around  the  trellice  work  of 
that  humble  porch  —  to  hear  her  name  him  in  the  familiar 
words  of  love,  and  tune  her  soft  voice  especially  for  his 
ear  —  thoughts  like  these  did  sometimes  indeed  overpow- 
er him  —  for  he  had  led  a  pure  and  unstained  life  —  vice 
had  withered  not  one  fibre  of  his  heart — he  had  wasted 
none  of  his  best  emotions  on  unworthy  objects  —  so  that 
his  visions  of  domestic  happiness  were  bright  and  strong, 
and  he  looked  on  them  with  the  same  solemn,  devout, 
and  sacred  spirit  with  which,  on  the  Sabbath  day,  he 
entered  the  place  set  apart  for  worship.  But  still  the 
belief  recurred  that  Agnes  could  not  love  him  —  that  she 
would  one  day  be  another  man's  wife  ;  and  in  depriving 
himself  of  the  dangerous  enjoyment  of  his  own  loving, 
almost  impassioned  thoughts,  he  felt  that  such  self-denial 


THE    FORESTERS.  21 

brought  its  own  recompense,  and  heightened  that  happi- 
ness which  Providence  had  allowed  him  to  enjoy  without 
either  fear  or  blame,  and  which  he  humbly  acknowledged 
was  sufficient  for  contentment  and  gratitude. 

One  beautiful  Sabbath  evening,  Michael  Forester  was 
walking  by  himself  along  the  banks  of  the  Esk,  and  met 
Agnes  Hay  going  to  Roslin  to  bring  home  her  aunt,  who 
had  that  day  attended  divine  service  in  that  church. 
The  meeting  at  such  a  time,  and  in  such  a  state  of  their 
affections,  was  felt  by  them  both  to  be  more  than  usually 
happy.  Agnes  took  Michael's  arm  with  cheerful  willing- 
ness, and  they  spoke  of  everything  most  interesting 
to  the  welfare  of  their  respective  homes.  The  sweet 
serenity  of  the  afternoon  was  in  perfect  unison  with  that 
of  their  own  hearts  ;  and  Agnes,  the  orphan  Agnes,  with 
such  a  friend  by  her  side,  felt  as  calmly  confident  of  the 
duration  of  her  peace,  as  if  she  had  had  a  hundred  kind  and 
rich  relations  alive,  and  the  future  provided  and  fenced 
in  against  the  intrusion  of  any  earthly  calamities.  All 
the  woods  were  ringing  with  vernal  delight  and  joy; 
and  her  countenance,  whose  general  character  was  meek 
and  pensive,  was  now  tinged  with  the  very  light  of  glad- 
ness;  her  steps,  usually  so  graceful  in  their  composure, 
were  now  no  less  so  in  the  buoyancy  of  exhilaration  ;  and 
without  doing  the  slightest  violence  to  the  native  and 
prevalent  modesty  of  her  demeanour,  the  innocent  crea- 
ture's perfect  happiness  enlivened  every  attitude  and 
every  motion,  while  not  altogether  unconscious,  perhaps, 
of  the  power  of  her  beauty,  she  stepped  over  stone  and 
stalk,  on  their  devious  hill-side  track,  through  the  over- 
hanging trees  whose  branches  sometimes  almost  impeded 
their  progress,  and  touched  their  heads  with  the  first 
odorous  buds  of  an  early  spring. 

Dovenest  and  its  gardens  lay  before  them  at  a  sudden 
bend  of  the  river.  The  cushat  dove  was  sounding  his 
deep  song  in  the  pines  behind  the  low  thatched  roof: 
and  in  front,  the  bright  golden  oak,  whose  foliage  pre- 
ceded by  at  least  a  fortnight  that  of  all  the  other  trees, 
shone  in  the  setting  sun.  "  Will  you  cross  the  stepping- 
stones,  my  dear  Agnes,  and  see  how  this  spring  promises 


22  THE    FORESTERS. 

in  our  gardens?  You  have  not  been  within  our  gate 
once  during  this  finest  and  most  forward  of  all  Aprils, 
and  to-morrow  is  May-day."  Agnes  was  glad  to  comply  ; 
and  they  descended  into  the  channel  of  the  river,  where, 
at  the  head  of  a  stream  that  formed  a  small  waterfall, 
there  was  a  natural  ledge  of  rock,  over  which,  when  the 
water  was  low,  it  was  easy  to  cross  the  Esk.  The 
showery  April  had  however  slightly  flooded  the  stream, 
and  while  Agnes  was  speaking  of  going  round  by  the 
wooden  bridge,  Michael  Forester  took  her  gently  in  his 
arms,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  let  her  down  from  his 
breast,  in  all  her  blushing  beauty,  on  the  turf  of  his  own 
paternal  acres.  The  heart  within  that  manly  breast,  by 
habit  and  duty  in  general  so  calm,  beat  as  loudly  as  if  it 
were  the  heart  of  fear  itself  in  an  unexpected  peril.  Her 
pure  breath  had  been  close  to  his  cheek,  closer  than 
it  had  ever  before  been  since  she  was  a  child,  and 
he  had  felt  on  his  side,  the  motion  of  that  virgin  bosom, 
where  purity,  innocence,  and  loveliness  were  folded 
up  together  in  most  beautiful  repose.  "  She  is  an 
orphan,"  thought  Michael  —  "O  that  this  very  blessed 
day  I  could  win  her  heart !  "  and  hope  came  to  him  from 
the  unoffended  expression'  of  her  downcast  eyes,  as  they 
walked  arm  in  arm  towards  his  house.  Few  words  were 
uttered  by  him  —  and  none  by  Agnes  —  till  they  entered 
the  little  white  gate,  with  its  arch  of  woodbine  and  sweet- 
briar  ;  and  as  it  closed  behind  them,  Michael  Forester 
felt  suddenly  that  what  he  loved  most  on  this  earth  was 
now  within  the  boundaries  of  his  own  dwelling.  Dearer 
was  she  to  him  than  all  his  other  best  and  happiest  pos- 
sessions —  than  all  other  remembrances  —  all  other  hopes 
—  even  than  his  father's  grey  hairs.  Yet  at  the  very 
time  that  he  thus  knew,  in  the  tumult  of  his  heart,  that 
the  fair  and  meek  orphan  was,  and  must  for  ever  be  to 
him  life  itself,  and  that  without  her  life  would  be  as 
death,  yet  his  other  human  affections  were  not  lost 
or  swallowed  up  in  that  stronger  love,  but  rather  all  com- 
prehended within  its  influence,  so  that  he  loved  both  fa- 
ther and  brother,  and  his  other  friends,  better  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  Agnes  Hay. 


THE   FORESTERS.  23 

With  a  faltering  voice,  which  he  in  vain  tried  to  com- 
pose, Michael  Forester  said,  with  great  tenderness  — 
"The  time  was,  Agnes,  when  you  came  almost  every 
day  to  Dovenest ;  then  it  was  only  week  after  week ; 
now  I  may  say  it  is  only  month  after  month;  and  in  fu- 
ture, perhaps,  it  may  be  only  year  after  year.  Yet 
it  might  be  better  for  me  if  it  were  so ;  for,  Agnes,  you 
will  be  the  wife  of  another  soon,  perhaps  ;  and,  whenever 
that  happens,  may  the  blessing  of  God  fall  upon  you  ; 
but  from  that  day  shall  I  be  the  most  miserable  of  men. 
I  love  you,  Agnes;  but  I  know  that  you  cannot  love  me 
— it  is  impossible!''  And  as  the  image  of  the  fair  child 
passed  before  him,  dancing  along  the  very  walk  where 
they  now  stood,  with  garlands  of  flowers  wreathed  round 
her  small  waist  and  arms,  he  felt  with  a  pang  that  Agnes 
could  not  now  look  on  him  as  a  lover,  whom  she  must 
have  so  long  regarded  with  such  other  feelings;  and  he 
remained  silent  in  his  despair. 

The  whole  heart  of  Agnes  Hay  seemed  to  herself  to 
have  undergone  a  deep  change  since  she  had  met  Michael 
only,  an  hour  ago  ;  but,  in  truth,  she  had  for  years  loved 
him  in  the  undisturbed  innocence  of  her  gentle  nature. 
She  had,  oftener  than  she  knew,  thought  of  him,  as  a 
certain  despondency  would  sometimes  come  over  her 
when  musing  on  her  orphan  state ;  and  therefore  this 
avowal  of  his  love,  although  wholly  unexpected,  did  not 
find  her  altogether  unprepared.  The  words,  heard  at 
first  with  a  delightful  doubt  of  their  meaning,  reached, 
before  Michael  had  ceased  speaking,  the  very  core  of  her 
heart ;  and  never  having  had  any  attachment  to  any 
other  person,  beyond  that  of  mere  ordinary  kindness, 
she  felt  that  she  could  give  him  all  that  her  life  had  ever 
contained,  without  reserve  of  one  single  transitory  feeling. 
"Impossible  to  love  Michael  Forester! — no — no  — 
say  not  so —  I  have  loved  you  ever  ;  and  I  will  love  you 
as  long  as  I  know  to  love  all  that  is  good,  worthy,  and 
most  estimable  in  a  Christian  husband."  That  one  last 
word  was  sufficient  for  Michael  Forester's  perfect  happi- 
ness ;  and  be  folded  this  beautiful  orphan  in  as  warm 
and  reverential  an  embrace  as  ever  brought  woman  to 
man's  beating  bosom. 


"24  THE    FORESTERS. 

They  walked  for  a  while,  silent  and  composed,  through 
the  dewy  arbors;  and  stood,  hand  in  hand,  beside  the 
dial,  shadowless  at  the  sweet  hoar  of  eight,  in  the  last 
dewy  evening  of  April.  All  around  was  orderly,  peace- 
ful, prosperous,  and  beautiful.  Then,  as  if  by  the  same 
impulse,  they  bent  their  way  towards  the  house  ;  and 
Michael  fervently  blessed  his  Agnes  as  she  stepped  across 
the  threshold.  They  sat  down  together  in  the  neat  little 
parlor,  whose  window  looked  up  the  Esk,.upon  a  home 
scene  hemmed  in  by  a  fantastic  sweep  of  wooded  rocks. 
The  large  family  Bible  was  lying  open  on  the  table;  and 
Michael,  taking  the  hand  of  his  Agnes,  laid  it  upon  the 
sacred  volume,  and  in  that  betrothment,  with  a  reveren- 
tial prayer  of  thanksgiving,  they  vowed  to  love  one  another 
until  death.  Agnes  shed  a  kw  tears  over  the  blessed 
page  ;  but  they  were  such  tears  as  nature  consecrates  to 
her  best  affections,  and  assuredly  were  not  of  evil  omen. 
Michael  Forester  kissed  others  away  from  her  sweet 
eyes,  as  her  head  rested  upon  his  breast ;  and  in  that 
tender  and  sacred  embrace,  in  which  he  folded  his  be- 
trothed, and  in  which  a  pious  spirit  expressed  its  grati- 
tude to  Heaven  for  an  unhoped  and  boundless  happiness, 
Agnes  felt,  beyond  all  possibility  of  being  deceived,  that 
she  had  committed  her  lot  in  this  life  to  a  man  who  knew 
the  value  of  innocence,  and  in  wedlock  would  cherish 
and  respect  it.  But  voices  were  heard  near  the  porch  ; 
and  although  Agnes  knew  well  whose  they  were,  and 
had  nothing  to  fear  from  such  intruders,  yet  a  new  tre- 
mor crept  over  her  at  their  approach,  and  her  heart  that 
had  beat  tranquilly  in  the  arms  of  her  lover,  palpitated 
violently  as  she  arose  to  meet  her  own  Aunt  Isobel  and 
old  Adam  Forester. 

A  few  words  from  Michael  explained  the  reason  of  all 
those  unusual  tears,  and  that  speechless  confusion.  Aunt 
Isobel  could  not  but  give  herself  some  little  credit  for 
having  always  internally  predicted  that  this  would  be  a 
marriage  some  day  ;  but  now  that  her  few  doubts  and 
misgivings  were  removed,  and  she  found  that  she  was 
in  good  truth  a  prophetess,  she  could  not  help  weeping 
in  her  joy,  as  she  thought  that  now,  die  when  she  might. 


THE    FOEESTERS.  25 

her  beloved  orphan  would  not  be  left  desolate.  The  old 
man  had  always  loved  Agnes  as  his  own  child,  and  had 
sometimes  allowed  himself  to  wish  that  Abel  had  been 
deserving  of  such  a  wife.  Now  that  his  eyes  were  opened 
to  what  he  had  never  before  suspected,  and  saw  Michael 
in  possession  of  such  a  treasure,  he  blessed  her  with  a 
fervent  voice,  and  pronounced  her  name,  as  if  he  dwelt 
upon  the  sound  ;  for  the  name  of  the  daughter  he  had 
lost  was  Agnes,  and  he  had  read  it  but  a  few  hours  ago 
on  her  gravestone.  The  thought  of  poor  Abel  and  his 
cureless  follies  passed  across  the  old  man's  mind,  and  he 
felt  that  if  that  dear  boy  would  but  repent  and  reform,  it 
would  be  a  blessed  lot  to  be  gathered  with  the  dead,  for 
that  then  the  whole  happiness  possible  to  human  life 
would  have  been  his,  and  it  would  therefore  be  time  to 
depart.  But  the  closing  shades  of  evening  warned  the 
party  to  break  up  —  the  stars  were  already  faintly  visible 
—  and  Agnes,  who  did  not  forget  others  in  her  own  hap- 
piness, feared  that  Aunt  Isobel  might  suffer  from  the  cold 
dews.  So,  in  a  few  minutes,  they  left  Dovenest ;  but 
not  before  the  evening  psalm  had  been  sung,  in  which 
the  voice  of  Agnes,  silvery  sweet,  but  somewhat  tremu- 
lous, touched  Michael's  heart,  in  his  own  house,  with  a 
profbunder  emotion  than  his  nature  had  ever  experienced 
before;  while  the  old  man,  unable  to  withstand  the 
beauty  of  its  holiness,  could  not  continue  his  part  in  the 
sacred  melody,  but  bowed  down  his  head,  and,  with  a 
broken  voice,  breathed  a  few  words  of  thanksgiving. 


CHAPTER   III. 

Few  ostentatious  ceremonies  marked  these  humble 
nuptials  ;  yet  decent  preparations  had  been  made  for  their 
change  of  life,  and  the  marriage  day  of  Michael  Forester 
and  Agnes  Play  was  almost  a  kind  of  holiday  in  Lasswade 
and  its  neighborhood.  Some  little  idle  gossip  there  had, 
no  doubt,  been  about  the  happy  couple,  for  at  least  a 
3 


26  THE   FORESTEKS. 

month  before  the  union ;  for  Agnes  was  not  only  beauti- 
ful, but  an  heiress;  and  it  is  surprising  what  interest 
some  good  people  take  in  the  dearest  concerns  of  those 
with  whom  they  are  not  perhaps  at  all  acquainted,  but 
for  whom  they  hold  themselves  entitled  even  to  judge 
and  decide,  from  the  single  circumstance  of  having  seen 
them  at  church  or  market.  Some  wise  critics  in  mar- 
riage matters  could  not  help  thinking  that  Michael  For- 
ester, although  a  most  excellent  man,  was  somewhat  too 
old  and  grave  for  so  very  young  and  lovely  a  bride,  and 
were  anxious  to  justify  that  opinion  by  adding  some  ten 
years  to  his  useful  life.  Some  conscientious  persons 
again,  were  much  afraid  that  Agnes  Hay,  who  had  been 
bred  up  daintily  under  the  care  of  her  aunt,  who,  it  was 
well  known,  had  always  taken  upon  herself  the  whole 
trouble  of  housekeeping,  would  make  but  an  indifferent 
wife  to  a  man  who  had  followed  a  laborious  profession, 
and  would  probably  expect  more  activity  and  frugality 
than  it  was  likely  he  would  find  in  a  young  woman  spoiled 
by  ease  and  indulgence.  Others  wondered,  and  of  their 
wondering  could  find  no  end,  what  would  become  of 
poor  Mrs.  Irvine?  Young  Mrs.  Forester  would  surely 
never  be  so  heartless  as  to  leave  her  by  herself  at  her 
advanced  time  of  life;  and  yet,  should  she  take  the  good 
old  lady  with  her  to  Dovenest,  who  could  say  to  a  cer- 
tainty that  she  would  prove  agreeable  to  the  husband,  or 
to  his  father,  who  was  well  known  to  be  rather  a  particu- 
lar sort  of  man,  of  perfect  integrity,  but  of  a  very  imper- 
fect temper  ? 

These  serious  topics  had  been  very  seriously  discussed 
at  the  tea-tables  of  Lasswade,  Roslin,  and  their  neighbor- 
hood ;  and  had  given  rise  to  many  clashing  and  conflict- 
ing opinions.  All  anxiety,  however,  in  the  public  mind 
about  Aunt  Isobel  was  removed  ;  for,  even  on  the  very 
marriage  day,  she  went  with  her  dearly  beloved  Agnes 
from  Sprinkeld  to  Dovenest.  Her  own  parlor  there  had 
been  prepared  for  her  weeks  before  ;  and  a  pretty  parlor 
it  was  — the  very  same  in  which  she  had  first  known  that 
Michael  and  Agnes  had  pledged  their  troth  ;  with  a  low 
roof,  and  one  window  down  to  the  floor  —  a  window  that. 


THE    FORESTERS.  27 

but  for  weekly  pruning,  would  soon  have  been  blinded 
by  the  clustering  roses;  and  from  which  she  could  see  a 
little  waterfall,  woods,  and  rocks;  on  either  side,  a  few 
pasture  fields,  here  and  there  the  roof  of  a  half-hid  house, 
or  the  blue  smoke  from  chimneys  concealed  entirely  in 
the  groves  of  Dryden. 

The  summer  months  passed  over  Dovenest  in  perfect 
happiness ;  and  that  silent  and  somewhat  melancholy 
spirit  that,  for  a  few  years,  had  lain  on  the  house  and 
grounds,  was  now  almost  wholly  dispelled.  Although 
the  old  man  could  never,  for  one  day,  forget  his  Abel, 
yet  Agnes  filled  up  the  void  in  his  heart.  In  all  things 
she  was  indeed  a  daughter.  There  was  no  interference, 
however  slight,  with  his  habits,  formed  insensibly  during 
the  lapse  of  so  many  years — no  hindrance  from  house- 
hold arrangements  ever  met  him  in  any  of  his  own  pecu- 
liar ways,  from  morning  to  night  —  no  formal  ofiiciousness 
ever  caused  him  trouble  by  its  ill-timed  attempts  to  pre- 
vent or  remove  it  —  no  unimportant  word  —  no  unsympa- 
thising  look  ever  made  him  feel  that  there  was  a  separa- 
tion between  the  souls  of  the  old  and  young.  But  Ag- 
nes, from  the  first  week  of  her  abode  at  Dovenest,  had 
felt  and  understood,  with  the  delicate  and  fine  discrimi- 
nation of  a  loving  nature,  the  prevalent  spirit  of  the 
household.  In  the  fearless  confidence  of  an  affection 
which  was  to  endure  for  life,  she  gently  took  upon  her- 
self the  management  of  all  those  little  concerns  necessary 
for  her  father's  comfort,  and  walked  about  the  place  with 
as  familiar  and  unrestrained  a  happiness,  as  if  she  had 
herself  been  born  in  the  house,  and  had  attended  on  her 
father  from  the  earliest  years  of  moral  reason.  Sprinkeld 
itself,  pleasant  place  as  it  was,  and  the  scene  of  her  whole 
previous  happy  life,  was  not  forgotten,  but  removed,  as 
it  were,  far  back  into  the  distance  of  years.  For  in  her 
husband's  house  was  her  whole  heart  centred — beyond 
the  white  garden  gate  her  thoughts  never  strayed  —  and 
all  the  beautiful  or  affecting  images,  which  other  happy 
days  and  scenes  had  supplied,  were  now  all  collected 
together  within  the  bounds  of  Dovenest.  A  thousand 
delightful  visits  which  she  had  made  there  long  ago,  and 


28  THE    FORESTERS. 

had  forgotten,  now  rose  distinctly  to  her  remembrance; 
she  recollected  the  voice,  the  figure,  the  occupation,  the 
kindness  to  her,  then  a  child,  of  him  who  was  now  her 
husband ;  and  in  all  those  renewals  of  the  past,  made  in- 
voluntarily, and  by  the  mere  force  of  affection,  there  was 
nothing  different  from  what  she  now  experienced;  but, 
although  at  that  time  imperfectly  understood,  the  same 
goodness,  integrity,  and  peace  had  been  witnessed,  within 
whose  bosom  she  now  lived  in  love  and  gratitude. 

Michael  Forester  led,  outwardly,  just  his  usual  life; 
but  the  whole  world  had  to  him  undergone  a  sudden  and 
blessed  transformation.  Hitherto,  he  had  been  happy  in 
the  cultivation  and  enlargement  of  his  intellect  —  in  the 
discharge  of  his  duties  —  and  in  the  indulgence  of  filial 
and  paternal  affeciion.  These  pleasures  were  with  him 
still  ;   but  now  a  being,  simpler,  purer,  more  innocent  far 

—  more  benignant  towards  all  her  fellow-creatures,  and 
more  entirely  pious  to  her  Creator  than  he  felt  it  possible 
that  he  himself,  or  any  other  man  could  be  —  laid  herself 
and  her  whole  life  in  trust  within  his  bosom.  Such 
blessedness,  only  a  few  months  before,  he  had  not  even 
ventured  to  imagine,  much  less  to  hope.  Agnes  Hay  he 
indeed  had  always  loved,  but  only  as  one  most  fair  and 
good,  who  was  to  be  nothing  more  to  him,  and  everything 
to  some  happier  man.  Now,  their  lives  were  blended 
together,  and  he  felt  his  whole  character  elevated  and 
purified  by  the  union.  Not  a  day  now  passed  without 
absolute  happiness,  without  calm  and  deep  enjoyment. 
Every  day  was  now  divided  into  hours  of  different  delight ; 
so  that  life  itself,  which  formerly  escaped  away  unnoticed 

—  year  following  year  in  confusion  within  the  memory- — 
seemed  now  to  be  prolonged  by  the  continual  and  unin- 
terrupted succession  of  employments  for  the  hand  and  the 
heart,  each  giving  way  to  the  other,  but  when  over,  still 
all  remembered. 

Adam  Forester  now  worked  but  seldom,  and  when  he 
did,  only  for  his  amusement.  This,  his  son  insisted 
upon  ;  for  there  was  no  need  to  conceal  from  his  father 
that  his  strength  was  much  decayed,  and  that  his  work 
days  were  over.     We  know  not  what  causes  within  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  29 

soul  may  affect,  for  good  or  evil,  the  body  of  old  age.  It 
seemed  as  if  all  Abel's  misconduct,  and  even  his  deser- 
tion of  home,  had  not  touched  the  old  man's  frame  so 
strongly  as  the  perfect  happiness  with  which  he  now  saw 
himself  surrounded.  That  happiness  had  given  a  shock 
—  a  gentle  one  no  doubt,  but  still  not  unperceived  —  to 
that  frame  which  had  borne,  undepressed  and  unfaltering, 
the  weight  of  three-score  and  ten  laborious  years,  with 
all  their  inevitable  anxieties  and  sorrows.  His  hand, 
long  so  steady,  had  now  more  than  a  slight  tremble  when 
lifted  up  in  prayer;  even  with  his  glasses  he  could  read 
the  Word  of  God  no  more :  but  the  voice  of  Agnes,  soft 
and  low  as  it  was,  was  still  not  indistinctly  heard  by  his 
now  dulled  ear,  when  louder  tones  were  all  undistinguish- 
able  ;  and  on  her  arm  alone  would  he  lean  in  his  Sab- 
bath walk  along  the  Esk,  and  confess  to  her,  his  dutiful 
daughter,  that  an  unpainful  sense  of  weakness  told  him 
to  hold  himself  ready  for  perhaps  a  sudden  summons. 
But  such  solemn  thoughts  were  reserved  for  solemn 
times;  and  so  cheerful  were  his  ordinary  converse  and 
demeanor,  that  it  was  remarked  by  all  his  neighbors,  that 
although  there  might  be  a  change  for  the  worse  in  his 
bodily  frame,  yet  that  the  youth  of  Adam  Forester's  mind 
seemed  indeed  to  have  been  renewed. 

But  the  happiness  of  this  household  would  have  been 
incomplete  without  Aunt  Isobel.  She  was  indeed  the 
most  lively  and  cheerful  of  all  possible  old  ladies,  blest 
with  untameable  good  spirits,  and  that  happy  constitu- 
tional temperament  that  cannot  abide  the  pressure  of  un- 
necessary or  undue  sorrows.  Having  been  all  her  life 
long,  from  mere  childhood,  thrown  upon  her  own  re- 
sources, and  accustomed  to  a  busy,  bustling,  and  careful 
life,  all  her  energetic  qualities  had  been  cultivated  to  the 
utmost,  and  she  looked  upon  idleness  as  at  once  the 
greatest  of  sins  and  of  punishments.  She  was  always 
doing  something,  and  would  have  found  some  regular 
employment  even  in  the  solitary  cell  of  a  prison.  Yet, 
although  constantly  on  the  alert,  she  was  never  teasing 
nor  troublesome  in  her  activity  ;  although  perpetually 
moving  about,  she  was  never  in  any  body's  way  ;  and,  in 
3* 


30  THE    FORESTERS, 

the  midst  of  her  multifarious  concerns,  she  always  wore 
a  smiling  face,  as  if  perfectly  mistress  of  her  business, 
and  sure  of  the  result —  which  result  was  never  her  own 
ease,  of  which  she  at  no  time  thought,  but  the  ease,  com- 
fort, or  happiness  of  others.  She  was  not  nmch  of  a 
literary  woman,  although  her  powers  of  wit,  humor,  and 
raillery,  would  have  set  many  a  blue-stocking  aghast ; 
but,  nevertheless,  she  had  her  album.  A  formidable 
quarto  it  was,  and  therein  had  she  copied,  in  a  neat  old- 
fashioned  hand,  full  of  dexterous  contractions,  and  in  an 
orthography  original  and  ingenious,  almost  every  receipt, 
however  recondite,  known  to  the  then  culinary  world. 
Indeed,  that  book  of  magic  told  how  best  to  do  everything 
that  could  be  done  in  any  house,  from  hall  to  hut.  And 
although  Aunt  Isobel  had  never  had  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  her  knowledge  and  powers  on  a  very  splendid 
scale,  yet  had  it  been  acknowledged  by  the  whole  world 
that  Sprinkeld  was  a  perfect  model  of  the  most  beautiful 
order  and  neatness  that  ever  was  seen,  and  that  every- 
thing within  doors,  just  as  without,  seemed  to  go  on  of 
itself  by  some  natural  process,  change  succeeding  change, 
without  any  apparent  effort,  like  the  very  season. 

With  a  heart  full  of  tenderness,  and  alive  to  every  kind 
human  feeling,  Mrs.  Irvine,  for  that  was  Aunt  Isobel's 
name,  made  no  pretence  to  sensibility.  On  the  contrary, 
she  was  much  averse  to  the  shedding  of  tears,  which  she 
thought  shoald  be  reserved  for  solemn  occasions,  frequent 
enough,  as  she  had  herself  experienced,  in  this  uncertain 
world.  Although  the  most  charitable  of  Christians,  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed,  she  disliked  the  whining  even 
of  real  poverty  and  distress;  and  often  gave  alms  with  a 
severe  countenance,  which  some  finer  spirits  might  prob- 
ably think  dimmed  the  merit  and  marred  the  beauty  of 
the  charitable  deed.  But  Mrs.  Irvine  thought  neither  of 
the  merit  nor  the  beauty  of  her  limited  charities  —  they 
were  from  3  kind,  humble,  and  pious  heart;  and  she 
thought  her  Maker  would  be  best  pleased  when  he  be- 
held her  relieving,  under  his  providence,  the  wants  of 
the  worthy,  and  sometimes  even  giving  unto  the  vicious 
and  the  wicked,  since  their  wants  are  indeed  the  greatest 


THE    FORESTERS.  31 

and  the  most  mournful  that  can  befall  the  children  of 
men.  Her's  was  a  deep,  still,  unostentatious  religion, 
that  but  slightly  colored  her  outward  demeanor  upon 
week  days  ;  but  duly  as  the  Sabbath  came,  her  whole  ap- 
pearance, person,  and  deportment,  were  calmed  and 
elevated.  Every  worldly  care,  however  laudable  in  itself 
at  other  times,  was  now  thrown  aside  with  her  weekly 
garments  ;  those  quick  busy  steps  became  composed  and 
even  dignified  ;  that  sharp  shrill  voice  was  subdued  into  a 
pleasant  lowness ;  her  face,  which  had  never  at  any  time 
been  more  than  comely,  but  always  expressive  of  good- 
ness and  intelligence,  was  now  almost  beautiful  in  its 
tranquillity,  with  her  gray  hair  decently  braided  over  her 
open  and  yet  unwrinkled  forehead ;  and  as,  in  her  black 
silk  gown,  which  were  her  widow's  weeds  thirty  years 
ago,  and  had  never  been  worn  but  on  Sabbaths,  she  took 
her  place  in  the  pew  in  her  kirk,  and  placed  before  her 
the  Bible  which  her  husband  had  given  her  on  her  wed- 
ding day,  there  was  not  perhaps  in  all  the  congregation 
one  more  like  a  lady  than  she,  if  such  a  distinction  may 
be  thought  of  in  such  a  place,  while  assuredly  there  was 
not  one  more  truly  a  Christian. 

How  then  could  the  family  at  Dovenest  be  otherwise 
than  happy?  It  seemed  to  Michael  and  Agnes  as  if  the 
first  summer  of  their  marriage,  even  independently  of  their 
own  joy,  was  most  especially  beautiful.  Never,  in  the 
memory  of  Adam  Forester  himself,  had  there  been  so 
many  soft,  warm,  and  dewy  nights,  so  many  cloudless 
and  sunbright  days.  In  spring  the  frost  had  spared  the 
blossoms  —  the  summer  insects  had  not  touched  the  fruits 
—  and  the  autumn  had  come  mildly  to  gather  her  ripened 
riches. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

The  merry  Christmas  week   was  just  over,  with  all  its 
festivities,   and  the  new  year  had  begun  to  open   auspi- 


32  THE    FORESTERS. 

ciously  on  the  family  at  Dovenest,  when,  one  forenoon,  a 
stranger,  of  most  respectable  appearance,  came  into  the 
garden  and  enquired  (or  Michael  Forester.  They  retired 
into  an  inner  room,  and  the  visiter  did  not  take  his  leave 
for  upwards  of  an  hour.  Michael  accompanied  him  to 
the  gate,  and  on  his  return  into  the  house,  his  disturbed 
and  troubled  countenance  did  not  for  a  moment  escape 
the  notice  of  his  wife.  Indeed,  she  had  never  before 
seen  her  husband  so  agitated,  and  knew  well  enough  that 
something  most  disastrous  must  have  happened.  Her 
fears  were  instantly  for  Abel ;  although  she  could  not 
help  dimly  apprehending  some  evil  personal  to  Michael 
himself,  so  haggard  and  even  ghastly  was  the  expression 
of  his  long,  dark,  and  gloomy  silence.  She  followed  him 
into  his  room,  and,  sitting  down  by  his  side,  took  hojd  of 
his  hand,  and  looked  up  to  his  face,  but  without  smiling 
or  uttering  a  word.  Her  husband  looked  on  her  with 
gentle,  but  sad  and  even  weeping  eyes,  and,  folding  her 
to  his  bosom,  said  —  "  Abel  has  ruined  himself  and  all  of 
us  forever.  Yes,  Agnes,  he  has  beggared  us  all  ;  and, 
O  Agnes  !  what  is  worse,  far  far  worse  than  beggary,  he 
has  committed  a  fearful  and  a  fatal  crime  —  is  a  forger 
and  a  felon  —  may  die  the  death  of  shame  —  and  the  white 
head  of  the  old  man  may  yet  be  brought  to  the  dust  in 
agony  and  dishonor.  Yes,  it  will  kill  him.  Abel  has 
murdered  his  father  —  Abel  whom  he  loved  so  tenderly  — 
Abel  whom  he  will  yet  weep  over  in  forgiveness,  when 
his  tongue  no  more  is  able  to  pronounce  a  blessing.  Poor, 
lost,  unhappy  boy!  we  will  all  of  us  forgive  him.  And, 
O  Agnes  !  that  the  wide  sea  were  now  rolling  between 
him  and  us,  so  that  the  dreadful  arm  of  the  law  might 
not  reach  him,  and  his  life  be  safe,  from  the  cruelty  of 
justice,  in  a  foreign  land  !  " 

The  time  had  now  come,  soon  and  unexpectedly,  when 
Agnes  felt  herself  called  upon  to  exert  that  power  which 
her  heart  told  her  resided  in  its  pious  innocence.  No 
repining  pang  shot  through  that  instructed  heart  —  no 
selfish  grief,  when  thus  told  suddenly  that  poverty  was  to 
be  her  lot  —  no  woeful  disappointment  of  lawful  hopes 
which  it  had  been  her  duty  to  cherish  —  no  yain  wish  — 


THE    FORESTERS.     '  33 

no  idle  thoughts  flung  back  to  the  independent  retire- 
ment of  Sprinkeld —  but  with  the  whole  passion  of  love 
that  existed  in  her  nature,  she  embraced  her  husband's 
neck,  and,  with  every  kindest  and  most  encouraging 
word,  addressed  to  his  own  ear,  mingled  prayers  of  holiest 
fervor  for  his  peace  of  mind  to  the  Giver  of  all  mercies. 
"  O  Michael  !  what  need  we  care  for  poverty  —  nay,  poor 
can  we  never  be,  although  all  our  worldly  substance  may 
have  melted  like  the  snow.  For  Abel  we  must  forever 
weep,  and  also  for  our  father  ;  but,  Michael,  my  Michael, 
yield  not  to  your  despair  ;  he  will  escape  —  he  will  escape 
—  fear  it  not ;  and  when  we  hear  and  know  that  he  is 
safe,  happier  shall  we  all  be  than  ever  ;  although  that, 
indeed,  is  impossible,  for,  since  I  was  your  wife,  too 
happy  have  I  been  for  any  one  in  this  mortal  world." 

It  was  fortunate  that  Adam  Forester  had  gone,  this 
sunny  forenoon,  to  Roslin,  and  thus  escaped  hearing  this 
intelligence,  which,  no  doubt,  the  stranger  would  have 
communicated  to  him  had  he  been  at  home.  In  a  won- 
derfidly  short  time,  Michael  recovered  first  from  the 
fever,  and  then  from  the  stupor  of  that  great  grief.  Agnes 
had  had  no  arts  of  allurement  or  fascination  when  she 
was  a  maiden ;  but,  in  her  unreserved  simplicity,  had  she 
given  him  her  affection.  Nor  since  her  marriage  had 
she  ever  sought  to  sway  his  mind,  either  in  trifling  or 
serious  concerns,  but  by  the  truth  and  purity  of  disin- 
terested love,  which  had  no  other  object  in  this  life  but 
to  make  him  happy.  Now,  she  had  made  use  not  of 
many  words,  nor  yet  of  very  many  tears  ;  but  those  that 
were  said  and  shed  had  done  their  office,  and  her  hus- 
band was  perfectly  composed  in  this  most  severe  afflic- 
tion. As  he  looked  on  her  calm,  still  beautiful  face, 
almost  smiling,  and  which,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
thoughts  of  Abel,  would  most  assuredly  have  smiled, 
with  its  usual  untroubled  sweetness,  on  the  prospect  of 
poverty  or  even  Avant,  he  could  not  but  feel  the  utter 
worthlessness  of  all  other  possessions;  while  the  hopeful 
light  of  her  eyes  beaming  fondly  upon  him,  forced  him  to 
believe  that  his  brother  would  escape,  and  that  the  worst 
evil  he  had  feared  need  no  more  haunt  his  imasination- 


34 


THE    FORESTERS. 


Each  tear  as  it  fell  at  times  down  her  cheek  upon  his  — 
each  almost  repressed  sigh  —  each  whisper  of  comfort 
when  no  word  was  syllabled  —  and  each  consoling  sentence 
of  wisest  words,  when  her  emotion  permitted  utterance 
to  her  calm  voice  —  restored  him  more  and  n)ore  nearly 
to  his  usual  tranquillity.  A  sort  of  haze  hung  over  the 
evil  that  had  befallen  —  its  most  hideous  features  were 
hidden  —  and  all  those  cheering  thoughts  arose,  which, 
whencesoever  they  came,  and  by  whomsoever  inspired, 
are,  in  times  of  distress,  the  sure  reward  of  a  virtuous 
and  pious  life. 

Aunt  Isobel  now  came  bustling,  with  her  usual  mirth 
and  vivacity  into  the  room,  but  instantly  changed  her 
mood  and  her  manner  when  her  eyes  met  those  of  Agnes. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  had  she  now  seen  in  these 
eyes  something  like  an  expression  of  misery,  which  was 
not  diminished  by  the  faint  smile  that  reluctantly  passed 
over  their  tears.  Could  it  be,  she  thought,  that  Michael 
had  been  unkind?  —  and  she  turned  towards  liim  an  al- 
most upbraiding  look.  But  Michael  kissed  the  brow  of 
Agnes,  and,  putting  her  hand  into  that  of  her  guardian  — 
for  that  was  still  her  deserved  name  —  he  earnestly  desired 
the  old  lady  not  to  be  disturbed  while  he  told  her  of  a 
very  great  and  melancholy  misfortune,  the  details  of 
which  he  had  not  yet  communicated  fully  even  to  his 
wife. 

"The  stranger  who  left  the  house  about  an  hour  ago 
is  a  respectable  person  in  trade  in  Edinburgh ;  and  my 
unhappy  brother,  poor  Abel,  instigated,  no  doubt,  and 
assisted  by  that  villain  Manse),  has  forged  upon  him  to 
a  very  large  amount.  Abel  has  got  the  money  ;  and 
unless  I  repay  it,  Mr.  Maxwell  will  do  all  he  can  to  dis- 
cover, apprehend,  and  bring  my  brother  to  punishment ; 
that  is,  to  death  —  yes,  to  certain  irreprievable  death.  If 
I  make  good  the  loss  he  has  sustained,  he  will  suffer  the 
affair  to  rest ;  Abel  will  escape  this  time  at  least  ;  and 
we  may  yet  rescue  him  from  destruction."  The  good 
'  old  lady  sighed  deeply,  and  wiped  her  eyes,  but  said  not 
a  word,  and  motioned  him  to  proceed.  "  At  my  father's 
deaihj  which  God  remove  to  a  distant  day,  you  know 


THE    FORESTERS.  35 

this  property  is  mine,  burthened  with  a  considerable 
mortgage,  and  a  small  annuity  to  Abel.  We  have  some 
outstanding  debts  due  to  us  ;  and  you  know  the  amount 
of  the  fortune  my  beloved  Agnes  brought  me  :  all  togeth- 
er, would  no  more  than  repay  what  Mr.  Maxwell  has 
lost  by  my  infatuated  brother's  crime." — "  Hush  !  hush  !  " 
said  Agnes  ;  "  I  think  I  hear  my  father's  footsteps !  " 
They  listened;  but  it  had  only  been  the  motion  of  some 
bird  among  the  withered  leaves.  "  Yes,  my  dear  Agnes, 
I  feel  the  meaning  of  your  fears  —  to  know  all  that  we 
know  would  break  the  old  man's  heart.  I  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  consult  you  what  ought  to  be  done  ;  so, 
trusting  to  your  approval,  I  told  Mr.  Maxwell  that  I 
would  make  good  what  he  had  lost  to  the  last  shilling  I 
possessed,  or  would  possess  for  years  to  come.  But  I 
told  him  that  it  would  certainly  kill  my  father  to  be  told 
of  Abel's  crime;  sol  have  become  his  debtor  to  the 
whole  amount  he  desired  ;  and  while  I  continue  to  pay 
him  the  interest,  he  will  not  demand  the  principal  till  my 
father's  death.  Then  Dovenest  must  be  sold ;  and  we 
must  seek  out,  in  our  poverty,  for  another  habitation." 

Michael  rose  from  his  seat  at  the  close  of  these  words, 
and  paced  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  room.  "Alas! 
Mrs.  Irvine,  you  will  think  now  —  it  will  be  impossible 
for  you  not  to  think  it  —  that  Agnes  Hay  has  made  an 
unhappy  marriage,  and  that  you  brought  her  up  so  ten- 
derly and  so  wisely,  to  become  miseral)le  at  last.  And 
yet,  if  I  could  die  for  my  Agnes  —  if,  for  her  sake,  I 
could  pour  out  from  my  heart  every  drop  it  contains  — 
if  I  could  purcliase  her  peace  through  life  by  the  mutila- 
tion of  my  limbs  and  miserable  decease  in  a  lazar  house" 

"O  Michael!   my   husband,   what   is  this  I   hear? 

Did  you  not  promise,  even  now,  when  you  pressed  me, 
as  you  said,  with  pride  to  your  bosom,  to  think  nothing 
of  this  evil,  which,  since  Abel  is  to  be  spared,  is  no  evil 
at  all?  No!  Michael  —  it  is  a  blessing  —  a  blessing 
from  that  Being  who  has  been  most  merciful  to  us  all  our 
days — who  guarded  my  orphan  head  by  day  and  night, 
and  has  given  me  the  gift  of  an  humble  and  contented 
spirit."     And   so  saying,  the  beautiful   young  wife  knelt 


36  THE    FORESTERS. 

down,  and  folded  her  hands  beneath  her  bosom,  over  the 
babe  that  stirred  within  her,  and  gave  her  a  foretaste  of 
a  mother's  joy.  "  Disturb  her  not,  disturb  her  not," 
said  her  guardian,  with  sobs  that  might  not  be  controlled. 
"Not I  —  not  I  was  it  that  taught  my  Agnes  —  her  vir- 
tues are  from  God,  and  from  God  came  the  lore  that  put- 
teth  to  shame  all  worldly  wisdom,  and  maketh  her  alike 
fit  for  the  trials  of  earth,  or  the  reward  of  heaven." 

It  was  no  sudden  and  transient  fit  of  enthusiasm,  but 
the  calm  deep  movement  of  piety,  that  kept  Agnes  in  the 
attitude  of  prayer.  To  the  meaning  of  her  words,  high 
as  it  was,  her  nature  was  to  be  for  ever  true.  No  exulta- 
tion felt  she  in  her  submissiveness  ;  it  was  the  strong 
humility  of  a  perfectly  resigned  heart.  The  fair  sight 
breathed  a  corresponding  calm  over  those  who  in  them- 
selves had  not  perhaps  been  so  comforted  ;  and,  on  rising 
from  her  knees,  she  was  rewarded  by  the  peace  on  her 
husband's  face,  and  the  kind  eyes  of  her  guardian,  that 
looked  on  her  with  a  Sabbath  smile.  And  now  the  old 
man's  footsteps  were  evidently  heard  :  every  cheek  was 
dried,  and  every  voice  composed  to  cheerfulness,  when 
their  father  entered  the  room.  He  put  his  staff  in  the 
usual  corner,  and  said  with  animation  —  "Children,  I 
have  had  a  sharp  walk,  and  it  is  a  fine  black  frost  —  let 
us  to  our  meal  —  for  an  east  wind  gives  a  good  appetite, 
and  I  think  that  I  may  yet  live  to  see  another  Christ- 
mas." 

The  small  round  table  was  now  covered  with  its  white 
cloth,  and  placed  near  a  blazing  root  fire.  Agnes,  with 
even  more  than  her  usual  tenderness,  wheeled  the  old 
high  backed  arm-chair  into  its  place.  The  old  man  held 
up  his  withered  hand,  and  bowed  down  his  hoary  head 
in  a  thanksgiving  over  the  frugal  repast ;  and,  forgetting, 
or  hushing  within  their  hearts,  all  painful  thoughts,  the 
family  broke  their  bread  in  peace,  and  there  were  even 
smiles  sent  round  the  board,  which,  in  spite  of  that  sore 
distress,  was  blessed  of  heaven. 


THE    FORESTERS, 


CHAPTER    V. 


A  SNOW  storm  liad  been  blowing  throughout  the  day 
from  all  points  of  the  compass,  and  huge  drifts  blocked 
up  almost  the  roads  and  paths  leading  into  the  valley  of 
the  Esk.  The  family  of  Dovenest  were  sitting,  somewhat 
late  on  a  January  night,  round  a  blazing  fire  ;  nor  did 
the  secret,  which  their  hearts  had  kept  from  the  old  man, 
painful  as  it  was  to  think  upon,  prevent  them  from  enjoy- 
ing much  happiness.  Indeed,  by  their  constant  care  to 
look  cheerful  at  all  times  in  his  presence,  they  had  often 
made  themselves  really  so,  when,  if  left  to  themselves, 
they  could  not  but  have  been  oppressed  with  anxiety  and 
grief  Adam  Forester  had  that  night  spoken  frequently 
of  Abel,  and  lamented  that  they  did  not  know  where  lie 
was  ;  for,  said  he,  "  I  wished  to  have  sent  him  a  new 
year's  gift ;  which  he,  no  doubt,  must  be  sorely  in  need 
of.  The  poor  boy  has  not,  I  fear,  such  a  comfortable 
house  as  we  have  over  his  head  this  wild  night  —  not 
such  a  fire  as  ours  to  sit  by  —  no  —  no  .  Why  did  he  ever 
leave  his  father's  house?  "  Soon  after  these  words,  the 
old  man  fell  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  nothing  more  was 
said  by  anybody  to  disturb  his  slumber.  Michael  took 
his  book  ;  Agnes  sat  before  him  at  her  work,  of  a  kind 
most  affecting  to  the  heart  of  a  young  wife;  and  Aunt 
Isobel,  whom  nobody  ever  saw  idle,  was  moving  about 
the  room  with  noiseless  steps,  and  getting  ready  the  eve- 
ning meal  by  the  time  the  old  man  should  awake,  which 
he  was  sure  to  do  when  the  clock  gave  warning  before 
the  hour  of  eight.  Early  hours,  night  and  morning,  were 
kept  at  Dovenest,  with  some  variation,  both  in  winter 
and  summer  ;  and  from  November  till  the  end  of  March, 
nine  was  the  hour  of  evening  prayer. 

A  loud  blow  struck  the  door;  and  then  a  man  dressed 

in  red,  like  an   officer  of  justice,  burst   into   the  room. 

He  looked   round,  for  a  few  seconds,  with  a  stern  smile, 

and  then  said  —  "  Ay,  ay  ;  you  have  put  Master  Abel  to 

4 


38  THE    FORESTERS. 

bed,  I  trow;  but  the  bird  is  not  flown  —  he  is  in  the 
cao-e  ;  so,  good  folks,  without  more  ado,  let  him  be  pro- 
duced. I  must  do  my  duty."  And  he  laid  down  a  pair 
of  handcuffs  on  the  table. 

Adam,  roused  from  his  sleep  by  that  horrid  intrusion, 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  ghastly  stare  upon  the  pitiless 
wretch,  while  his  withered  cheeks  were  white  as  ashes. 

"Giles  Mansell  has  forged  on  the  Bank  of  Scotland; 
and  his  crony,  Abel  Forester,  your  son,  old  man,  is  im- 
plicated. The  brass  plates  were  found  in  the  garret  he 
inhabited,  not  long  since  ;  but  no  need  of  palaver  ;  hang- 
ing is  but  hanging,  so  bring  him  out,  or  I  must  have  a 
search  in  the  rookery." 

The  old  man  now  knew  that  Abel  was  a  forger,  and 
saw  him  on  the  scaffold.  He  gave  no  sigh,  no  groan, 
no  shudder;  but,  as  if  a  bar  of  iron  had  struck  him  on 
the  temple,  or  vapor  damp  suffocated  him,  his  head  fell 
back,  and  his  features  grew  rigid,  as  in  the  grasp  of  death. 
Isobel  saw  the  change,  and  soon  bathed  his  forehead. 
But  Michael  questioned  the  officer,  who,  unmoved,  with- 
out circumlocution,  and  in  a  few  plain  and  dreadful 
words  repeated  the  frightful  truth. 

The  miserable  father  seemed  to  hear  in  his  swoon  ;  and, 
raising  himself  np  in  his  chair,  which  he  was  too  weak 
to  leave,  fastened  his  eyes  once  more,  as  in  fascination, 
upon  a  serpent.  "  Abel  has  done  many  things  sore 
amiss,  Mr.  MTntyre  —  for  I  know  your  name,  sir  —  but 
he  is  no  forger ;"  and  the  very  sound  of  that  fatal  word 
struck  on  his  heart  like  a  knell,  while,  with  his  eyes  still 
fixed  in  dreadful  doubt  on  the  officer's  dark  scowling 
countenance,  and,  with  a  forced  smile  of  hope  that  passed 
away  over  his  quivering  lips  and  cheeks,  he  laid  back 
his  white  head  once  more,  and  uttered  one  long,  dismal, 
deadly  groan  of  incurable  despair. 

M'Intyre  searched  thoroughly  the  whole  house,  and 
then  appeared  to  believe  that  he  had  come  thither  on 
wrong  information.  He  sat  down,  laid  his  loaded  pistols 
on  the  table,  and  helped  himself  to  food.  Meanwhile, 
Michael  had  taken  his  father  in  his  arms,  and,  carrying 
him  into  his  own  room,  laid  him  on   liis  bed.     He  tried 


THE    FOKESTEKS.  39 

to  comfort  him  in  liis  agony  ;  but  his  father,  although  he 
looked  on  him,  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  to  understand  his 
words.  Agnes  came  and  sat  down  at  the  bedside,  hold- 
ing the  old  man's  head  between  her  hands,  and  Michael 
returned  to  the  room  he  had  left.  M'Intyre  was  eating 
greedily,  and  demanded  liquor,  which  was  given.  There 
the  fiend  sat,  with  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  coarse  features, 
and  sallow  complexion,  dead  to  all  human  misery.  The 
thief-taker  had  once  been  a  soldier,  and  had  seen  much 
of  honorable  and  dishonorable  death.  For  twenty  years 
—  for  the  wretch's  coarse  hair  was  grizzled  —  it  had 
been  his  business  to  prowl  about  prisons  —  to  lock  cells 
upon  guilt  and  despair  —  to  sit  cold  as  Ice  beside  quaking 
caitiffs  at  the  bar  —  and  to  do  hideous  work  about  scaffolds 
on  days  of  execution.  Even  he  had  an  idea  of  duty  — 
inexorable  with  a  warrant —  and  not  to  be  bribed  by  the 
criminal  on  whom  he  had  set  his  fangs  —  gruff  and  grim 
in  his  integrity,  that  was  proof  against  the  silver  and  gold 
of  those  who  had  been  driven  to  wickedness  by  want  and 
famine. 

"  Nae  doubt  it  is  hard  on  your  father,  sir  ;  but,  in  time, 
he'll  get  ower  it  like  mysel.  It's  nae  secret  —  a'  Scot- 
land kens  it — how  my  ain  son,  Donald  Dhu,  rubbed 
shouthers  with  the  gallows.  He  had  gotten  up  to  be  ser- 
geant in  the  Forty-second  —  the  Auld  Black  Watch  —  but 
a  halbert  wouldna  content  my  gentleman — he  wad  fain 
be  an  ensign;  so  he  forges  a  bill  for  four  hunder  poun'. 
But  his  hawse  wasna  made  for  hemp:  aff  gaed  Donald 
across  the  seas,  and  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  a  black 
nigger  in  the  West  Indies.  Anither  stoup  o'  whisky,  sir, 
gin  ye  please.  It 's  a  bitter  night — eneuch  to  tirr  a  taed  ; 
and  I  hae  been  uj)  to  the  oxters  in  snaw-pits  fifty  times, 
between  this  and  Loanhead." 

Michael,  who  had  had  time  to  reflect  on  the  charge 
against  Abel,  began  to  recover  his  spirits,  and  to  believe 
that  this  might  be  a  mistake:  at  all  events,  he  had  no 
reason  to  think  that  his  brother  was  now  in  Scotland  ; 
and,  in  this  belief,  he  could  bear  more  patiently  the  pre- 
sence of  the  loquacious  man  of  blood.  "  Weel,  weel, 
man,  I  'm  no  sorry  that  this  ne'er-do-weel  brither  o'  yours 


40  THE    FORESTERS. 

is  no  here  the  nicht.  But  diiina  think  thai  he  '11  no  he 
gruppit  duing  this  ve-ra  moon.  Think  ye  he  'il-  escape 
a'  the  thief-takers  hetween  tlie  Land's  End  and  John  o' 
Groat's?  .  We're  a  strong  squad.  And  then  there's  no 
a  clachan,  nor  a  town,  nor  a  road  side  change-house,  that 
hasna  a  hue  and  cry  description  o'  him  by  this  time  — 
liker  than  ony  painted  picture.  There  they  are  stuck  up 
on  every  smiddy  door  —  every  cross  stane  —  every  gable 
end  —  every  kirk  yett.  A  fox  may  as  weel  think  o'  rinnin 
i'  the  day  time  through  amang  houses,  and  alang  the 
king's  high  road,  without  being  worried  by  a  thousand 
curs.  The  hue  and  cry  will  gang  down  into  the  very 
coal  pits  ;  and  the  chimley  soopers  will  ken  him  war  he 
to  tak  a  brush  owre  his  shouther,  and  blacken  his  face 
like  the  deil  himsel.  But  here  's  to  you,  sir.  This  is 
prime  spirit.     I  'se  warrant  it 's  smuggled." 

Finding  that  Michael  did  not  join  in  the  conversation, 
the  officer  lighted  his  pipe,  and  sat  mute  and  surly,  with 
his  huge  hand  close  upon  his  pistols,  till  the  clock  struck 
twelve,  when,  with  an  oath,  he  started  to  his  feet,  and, 
growli.'ig  out  that  he  must  be  at  the  jail  by  two  o'clock, 
pocketed  his  weapons,  and  faced  the  storm,  still  raging 
furiously,  in  the  starless  night.  Michael  listened  at  the 
door,  and  heard  him  plunging  through  the  wreathes  away 
down  the  glen. 

Michael's  heart,  in  some  degree,  revived  on  the  removal 
of  that  loathsome  reptile,  or  beast  of  prey  ;  and  just  as 
he  was  about  to  go  into  his  father's  room,  the  old  man, 
supported  by  Agnes  and  Isobel,  came  feebly  forwards, 
and  requested  to  be  placed  in  his  chair.  "  O  Abel,  Abel ! 
why  hast  thou  done  this  thing?  And  is  there,  indeed, 
no  pity  for  thee  among  thy  fellow  creatures?  No;  they 
know  not  how  to  pnrdon  each  other's  sins.  But  we  have 
not  had  family  worship  yet  ;  and  it  must  be  done  before 
I  take  to  my  bed;  for  from  that  bed  shall  I  never  be  lift- 
ed again,  till  you,  Michael,  walk  at  my  feet,  and  lay  your 
father  in  the  only  place  of  rest  on  this  cruel  earth."  But 
Michael  was  not  able  to  read  the  chapter;  so  Agnes, 
stronger  than  them  all  in  this  trial,  took  the  Bible,  and 
read  what  her  father  had  marked  some  hours  before,  with 


THE    FORESTERS.  41 

a  voice  that  faltered  less  and  less  at  every  verse,  and,  at 
the  close,  was  almost  steady  as  it  had  been  in  the  morn- 
ing worship. 

A  pane  in  the  window  that  moved  on  a  hinge  was  stir- 
red, and  a  well-known  whisper  said  —  "  Brother  —  broth- 
er !  "  The  old  feeble  man  started  like  a  youth  to  his  feet 
at  the  sound  of  Abel's  voice.  The  door  was  unlocked  ; 
and  there  in  the  midst  of  them,  all  drenched  with  sleet 
and  snow,  stood  the  poor  hunted  felon.  "  Kiss  me  —  kiss 
me,  Abel  —  for  I  am  sick  —  sick  at  heart ;"  and  the  mis- 
erable man  laid  his  icy  cheek  close  to  that  of  his  father. 
Instinctively  he  supported  him  to  his  chair,  and  knelt 
down,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  father's  knees.  "  Will 
not  that  fearful  tiend  return  against  us  ? "  said  the  old 
man,  looking  wildly  towards  the  door;  and  Michael 
stood,  in  his  giant  strength,  before  his  father  and  his 
brother,  resolved  that  not  a  hair  of  Abel's  head  should  be 
touched  till  he  himself  was  killed.  But  the  officer  had 
obeyed  his  instructions,  and  was  now  miles  on  his  road  to 
Edinburgh. 

Abel  had,  for  weeks,  suffered  more  pain,  hunger,  and 
cold  —  more  searching  misery  of  mind  and  body  —  than 
had  almost  ever  fallen  to  the  lot  of  man;  and  the  relief 
now  yielded,  by  the  very  light  and  heat  of  the  hearth, 
was  felt  in  his  spirit  through  its  frame.  They  who  loved 
him  so  dearly  would  fain  have  spared  him  the  agony  of 
shame  in  telling  the  extent  of  his  delinquencies  :  all  that 
they  desired  was  to  hear  from  him  if  he  had  any  hope,  if 
there  was  any  chance  of  escape.  But  his  sin,  his  shame, 
his  sufferings,  were  now  all,  for  a  time,  forgotten  ;  for  a 
cold  flutter,  he  said,  was  tugging  at  his  heart,  and  he  fell 
down  like  a  corpse  upon  the  floor.  His  father,  who,  a 
few  minutes  before,  was  unable  to  walk  across  the  room 
unassisted,  now  raised  his  son's  head  with  an  arm  of 
strength,  and,  along  with  Michael,  bore  him  to  that  bed 
in  which  he  had  slept  for  so  many  tranquil  and  innocent 
years.  Every  other  fear  was  lost  in  that  of  his  immediate 
dissolution  ;  and  the  old  man  expressed  his  determina- 
tion to  sit  by  him  during  the  whole  night.  The  lights 
4* 


42 


THE    FORESTERS. 


were  soon  extinguished  —  all  but  one  taper — and,  at 
dead  of  midnight,  there  was  silence,  if  not  sleep,  over  all 
the  house. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Had  Adam  Forester  been  even  a  stern  and  austere 
father,  instead  of  one  most  indulgent  and  forgivinor,  the 
pitiable  condition  of  his  son  must  have  softened  all  judg- 
ment of  his  undutiful  transgressions.  His  suilt  had  been 
great,  but  so  had  already  been  its  punishment.  He  had 
found  himself  inextricably  involved  in  many  dishonest 
and  dangerous  practices  by  Mansell,  whose  sister  he  had 
privately  married.  That  unprincipled  person  had  urged 
him  to  the  commission  of  all  those  acts  which  had  made 
him  amenable  to  the  criminal  law,  and  had  indeed  so 
practised  upon  his  easy  and  credulous  nature,  as  to  lead 
his  hand  into  guilt  without  even  a  clear  knowledge  in  his 
mind  that  he  was  perpetrating  any  crime.  Mansell  —  a 
man  of  education  and  ingenuity  —  had  been  an  engraver, 
and  had  applied  his  knowledge  of  that  art  to  the  worst 
purposes.  Abel  had  been  made  a  convenient  tool  of  by 
his  abandoned  brother-in-law,  and  at  last  found  that  he 
had  brought  himself  close  to  the  very  edge  of  destruction. 
He  scarcely  knew  the  exact  extent  of  his  own  guilt;  but 
he  knew  that  he  had  been  proclaimed  a  felon,  and  that 
the  officers  of  justice  had,  for  some  time,  been  in  search 
of  him  on  a  capital  charge.  Mansell  was  somewhere 
hidden  in  the  wild  darkness  of  London ;  and  Abel's  wife 
was  concealing  herself  in  the  north  of  England,  till  it 
might  be  possible  for  him  to  elude  the  keen  blood-hounds 
that  were  hunting  him  out,  and  join  her  at  an  appointed 
place  in  those  secluded  regions. 

Abel  had,  at  last,  been  driven  to  such  extremities  in 
his  endeavors  to  conceal  himself,  that  for  a  week  he  had 
remained,  day  and  night,  in  one  of  the  old  tombs  of  the 
Greyfriar's   Church-yard.     Now   and   then   he  had  come 


THE    FORESTERS. 


43 


out,  like  a  ghost,  from  that  dreadful  asylum,  and  purchas- 
ed something  to  keep  him  alive.  The  weather  had  been 
intensely  cold,  and  the  poor  criminal  had  been  sometimes 
nearly  frozen  to  death.  But  the  love  of  life  —  that  strong 
passion  —  had  supported  his  heart  in  the  very  frostiest 
famine  ;  and  the  agitation  of  an  unceasing  anxiety  had 
made  his  blood  to  circulate,  when  otherwise  it  would 
have  been  congealed  through  his  veins  in  that  open  vault, 
whose  only  door  had  sometimes  been  a  drift  of  snow.  In 
the  squalor  of  his  wretchedness,  he  had  at  last  been  afraid 
to  go  into  any  shop  to  purchase  a  loaf  to  devour  in  his 
gnawing  hunger  :  eyes  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  he 
thought,  and  people  whispered  to  each  other;  so  that, 
unable  longer  to  endure  that  direful  imprisonment,  he 
had  issued  forth  in  spite  of  fear,  and,  in  defiance  of  all 
emergencies,  had  found  his  way,  in  that  snow  storm,  to 
the  house  of  his  father.  Some  one  had,  perhaps,  known 
his  countenance,  and  informed  the  police  that  he  had 
been  seen  in  the  city;  or  Mr.  M'Intyre's  visit  to  Dove- 
nest  might  have  been  one  of  those  accidental  coinci- 
dences, that  often  bring  guilt  to  detection,  and  at  all 
times  hang  over  the  workers  of  iniquity —  making,  on  a 
sudden,  the  most  safe  and  secret  place  dangerous  as  the 
lion's  den. 

His  extreme  suffering  had  so  worn  out  both  soul  and 
body,  that  Abel,  on  his  arrival  at  Dovenest,  was  at  first 
almost  insensible  to  every  thing  he  saw  or  heard.  His 
very  remorse  was  lost  in  pain,  sickness,  and  exhaustion; 
and  while  his  old  gray-headed  father  had  embraced  him 
once  more,  he  scarcely  knew  that  he  was  in  the  old  man's 
arms.  "  Let  me  lie  down,  father,  for  I  am  dead  with 
weariness,  cold,  hunger,  and  want  of  sleep."  Adam  For- 
ester's strength  had  seemed  miraculously  restored  on 
sight  of  his  son.  On  his  shoulders,  rather  than  on  Mi- 
chael's, had  the  prodigal  leaned  as  he  tottered  to  his  bed  ; 
at  that  bed-side  his  father  heard  his  hurried  confession; 
nor  would  the  old  man  go  to  his  own  rest  till  Agnes  be- 
seeched  him  with  those  soft  dewy  eyes,  whose  gracious 
power  he  could  never  oppose,  and  promised  to  call  him 
up   before   daylight,    with   that    low   and    plaintive   voice 


44  THE    FORESTERS. 

which  had  never  yet  asked  and  been  refused,  and  never 
would  so  do  until  his  dying  day. 

But  long  before  daylight  there  was  Adam  Forester 
sitting  by  his  Abel's  bedside.  With  his  own  hands  had 
he  lighted  a  fire  in  the  room,  and  was  preparing  some 
tbod  for  him  when  Agnes  appeared.  A  few  hours'  warm 
sleep  had  much  restored  the  miserable  man  ;  and,  wholly 
possessed  with  the  feeling  of  being  once  more  at  home  — 
once  more  a  dweller  in  Dovenest — Abel  almost  forgot 
that  he  was  a  hunted  felon,  and  that  in  an  hour  he  might 
be  drt-^ged  from  his  bed  and  flung  manacled  into  a  dun- 
geon. All  the  evil  of  these  two  last  years,  whether  it 
were  sin  or  sorrow,  guilt  or  remorse,  was  banished  from 
his  memory — himself  of  that  distracted  time  had  per- 
ished away  —  and  he  was  the  innocent  Abel  of  other 
days,  when  he  had  little  more  to  upbraid  himself  with, 
but  a  few  faults  and  follies,  forgiven  as  soon  as  known, 
and  never  remembered  against  him  beyond  the  first  even- 
ing prayer.  Then  would  he  all  at  once  remember  what  he 
was  now  ;  and  as  the  horrible  future  appalled  him,  he 
wished  that  the  past  might  be  here  peacefully  expiated, 
and  his  head  never  more  lifted  up  from  that  pillow. 

Within  the  last  few  hours,  some  of  the  strongest  of  all 
human  passions  had,  with  severe  force,  struck  the  heart 
of  old  Adam  Forester  ;  and  passions,  too,  opposite  to 
each  other  as  midday  and  midnight.  These  sudden 
shocks  had,  for  the  time,  communicated,  as  it  were,  a 
preternatural  strength  to  their  victim.  But  when  the 
final  excitation  subsided,  it  left  him  weak  as  a  reed.  He 
was  sensible,  before  others  observed  it,  that  a  palsy  had 
crept  over  him  —  that  his  powers  of  speech  were  be- 
numbed, and  that  this  must  be  the  finger  of  death.  The 
change  was  soon  visible  to  all  but  Abel  ;  and  Michael, 
Agnes,  and  Isobel,  who  had  the  most  nice  of  all  his 
looks,  gestures,  words,  and  motions,  certainly  knew  that 
he  was  fatally  stricken.  There  was  no  painful  distortion 
to  distress  their  hearts — his  speech  was  not  greatly 
changed ;  but  a  mortal  weakness  overspread  face  and 
figure,  and  there  was  an  expression  in  his  eyes  that  told 
the  lids  would  in  a  few  hours  be  closed.     "  f  am  dying, 


THE    FORESTERS.  45 

children :  let  me  have  all  your  prayers."  Abel  had 
again  fallen  asleep,  and  heard  not  his  father's  voice. 

There  was  no  weeping  or  lamentation  at  that  death- 
bed. As  the  tide  of  life  kept  ebbing  away,  the  old  man 
seemed  anxious  and  more  anxious  about  Abel.  But  his 
anxiety  although  heavier,  seemed  less  painful,  and  to  be 
nearly  akin  to  hope  and  trust.  They  who  surrounded 
him  knew  well  what  was  meant  by  each  faint  single 
word;  they  also  knew  all  he  wished  to  hear;  and  as  his 
dim  eyes  looked  towards  tliem,  which  of  them  he  expected 
to  speak.  "  If  my  Abel  has  wronged  any  one,  sell  this 
patrimony,  Michael,  and  purchase  him  life." 

Michael  had  kept  one  secret  from  his  father  ;  for  he 
knew  that,  independently  of  other  considerations,  old 
men  cannot  bear,  without  severe  pain,  the  thoughts  of 
the  property  their  industry  has  painfully  purchased  de- 
parting into  a  stranger's  hands  after  their  death;  and 
Adam  Forester  was  not  altogether  without  this  failing 
incident  to  old  age.  But  now  Michael  saw  that  he  could 
give  him  strong  comfort.  "  Father,  fear  not  for  Abel's 
life.  Of  this  last  crime  of  his  associate,  he  has  said  that 
he  is  wholly  innocent ;  and  however  suspicious  circum- 
stances may  be  against  him,  they  will  all  be  explained, 
should  he  ever  be  brought  to  trial.  The  innocent  will 
not  suffer.  Other  wrong  things  has  Abel  done  ;  but, 
some  months  ago,  I  settled  the  whole  with  his  accuser ; 
and  even  with  this,  my  patrimony,  have  I  already  pur- 
chased safety  to  his  life.  Not  a  hair  of  Abel's  head 
shall  be  hurt,  father  —  no,  not  a  hair  of  his  head." — 
"Then  can  I  die  happy,"  said  the  old  man;  and  these 
were  his  last  words.  Agnes  leaned  down  her  cheek  close 
to  his,  and  was  about  to  smooth  his  pillow;  but  she  heard 
no  breath,  and  said  calmly  to  Michael  — "Our  father  is 
dead." 


46  THE    FORESTERS. 


CHAPTER    VII 


In  a  kw  weeks  it  was  known  throughout  the  neighbor- 
hood that  both  Dovenest  and  Sprinkeld  were  to  be  sold. 
Some  people,  who  pretended  to  be  in  the  secret,  said, 
that  Michael's  young  wife  longed  for  a  town  life,  and  had 
given  him  no  peace  until  he  had  agreed  to  remove  into 
Edinburgh.  Others  looked  grave,  and  shook  their  heads, 
saying,  they  had  never  thought  Adam  Forester  a  rich 
man  :  that  heavy  mortgages  were  on  his  small  property  ; 
and  that,  no  doubt,  Abel  had  cost  his  fond  and  foolish 
father  much  money — the  old  man  having,  very  repre- 
hensibly,  encouraged  him  in  all  his  extravagance.  None 
knew  the  real  state  of  the  case;  although,  in  a  short 
time,  Michael  let  it  be  generally  understood,  that  he  was 
able,  indeed,  to  pay  all  his  debts;  but,  after  that  was 
done,  that  he  should  be  but  a  poor  man.  Coarse  and  idle 
rumors  died  away  in  less  than  one  little  month;  and  it 
was  felt  by  every  fireside  in  the  glen,  that,  when  the  For- 
esters left  it,  it  would  lose  the  best  family  it  had  contained 
within  the  oldest  memory.  There  was  no  pity  felt  for 
them,  for  they  all  seemed  composed  and  cheerful  shortly 
after  the  funeral.  Indeed,  there  are  persons — and  the 
Foresters  were  of  that  number  —  who,  even  in  severest 
trials,  are  objects  of  a  higher  feeling  than  pity,  and  appear, 
in  the  elevation  of  misfortune,  worthier  our  envy  than 
our  compassion.  Towards  them,  all  impertinent  curiosity 
is  at  once  quelled  by  the  simple  dignity  of  their  demeanor  : 
their  condition,  whatever  it  may  be,  must  not  be  ques- 
tioned ;  and,  although  we  remain  ignorant  of  their  real 
circumstances,  we  take  the  propriety  of  all  their  conduct 
on  trust,  and  follow  them  in  all  their  unrepining  changes 
with  our  silent  and  approving  sympathy. 

Nor  was  there  now  any  unhappiness  very  hard  to  be 
endured  within  the  walls  of  Dovenest.  Abel  had  re- 
mained in  his  concealment,  till  he  thought  he  might 
venture  to  attempt  his  nightly  escape  over  the  hill  coun- 
try into  the  north  of  England.      His  case  was  desperate; 


THE    FORESTERS.  47 

and  after  many  contrite  and  remorseful  confessions,  and 
receiving  his  brother's  entire  forgiveness,  he  went  his 
way,  promising  to  let  them  hear  something  of  him,  if  he 
eluded  detection,  as  soon  as  prudence  would  permit. 
The  silence  of  all  rumors  concerning  him  was  the  best 
comfort  that  could  be  offered  to  all  their  hearts  ;  and 
they  were  willing  to  cherish  the  belief  that  he  had  efTected 
his  escape  beyond  seas.  That  belief  was  enough.  What 
although  they  were  about  to  be  what  is  called  poor?  By 
that  poverty  they  had  probably  purchased  Abel's  life,  at 
a  time  when  it  was  forfeited,  and  he  himself  might  have 
been  seized.  And  what  peace  could  there  ever  have 
been  at  Dovenest  again,  if,  for  its  sake,  Abel  had  been 
destroyed  1  Yet,  although  soon  to  leave  that  beloved 
place,  they  did  not  seek  violently  to  dissever  from  it  their 
strong  affections.  They  would  enjoy  it  to  the  last ; 
every  day  they  had  yet  to  remain  within  its  quiet  bounds, 
they  filled  up,  from  morning  to  night,  with  endearing 
thoughts  of  its  beauty  —  every  little  nook  was  visited  and 
revisited  with  an  unstrained  pleasure,  gently  mingled 
with  an  unpainful  regret  —  every  tree  that  hung  its  shadow 
over  the  hawthorn  hedge,  upon  their  own  river,  they  re- 
garded more  fondly  now  that  their  last  spring  was  adorn- 
ing its  familiar  branches ;  and  as  they  stood  beside  the 
dial,  they  prayed  that  the  hours  might  throw  over  it  their 
lingering  shadows,  that  the  day  of  their  departure,  though 
fixed,  might  be  as  remote  as  possible;  and  their  last  two 
months  extended,  in  the  multitude  of  their  thoughts 
within  them,  into  the  length  of  a  mournful  but  not  un- 
happy year.  To  Michael,  the  prospect  of  leaving  for- 
ever the  house  in  which  he  had  been  born,  was,  perhaps, 
less  disturbing  at  any  time,  than  it  was  to  Agnes,  to 
know  that  the  scene  of  her  bridal  happiness  was  soon  to 
pass  away  from  her  like  a  dream.  Seeing  them  perfectly 
resigned.  Aunt  Isobel  lost  nothing  of  her  habitual  vivacity, 
and  her  constant  cheerfulness  often  insinuated  itself  by 
an  agreeable  contagion  into  their  spirits,  when,  perhaps, 
they  were  disposed  to  despond,  and  might  have  yielded 
to  the  pressure  of  natural  disappointment  and  distress. 
And,  ere  long,  there  was  a  new  inmate  within  the  peace- 


48  THE    FORESTERS. 

ful  dwelling;  for  a  child  was  born;  and  Michael  and 
Agnes  being  now  parents,  not  one  single  shadow  of  sor- 
row could  abide  round  its  cradle.  Agnes  felt  it  at  her 
bosom  —  Michael  saw  its  mother  smile  —  and  all  mere 
worldly  prosperity  was,  under  the  power  of  that  sacred 
instinct,  utterly  forgotten.  Richer  were  they  than  tongue 
could  tell,  or  heart  could  conceive:  and  the  Sabbath  day 
on  which  the  infant  Lucy  was  baptized,  was  the  most 
serenely  and  perfectly  blest  day  of  all  their  lives,  scarcely 
excepting  that  on  which  they  had  been  married. 

Michael  Forester  had  tixed  upon  a  plan  of  life,  and  had 
already  prepared  to  carry  it  into  execution.  The  only 
master  he  had  ever  known  was  his  own  father,  and  that 
had  been  always  a  pleasant  servitude.  Independent  he 
would  still  be;  and,  in  so  resolving,  he  felt  that  he  was 
influenced  by  an  allowable,  an  honorable  pride.  A  strong 
man,  in  the  meridian  of  life,  well  educated,  and  not  un- 
conscious of  his  abilities,  what  had  he  to  fear  either  for 
himself  or  those  he  loved?  Nay,  a  new  spring  of  happi- 
ness seemed  to  be  flowing  within  his  heart,  now  that  a 
demand  was  made  for  exertions  that,  but  for  this  misfor- 
tune, would  have  been  unnecessary,  and  he  looked  with 
a  steady  and  bold  eye  into  futurity.  Plis  life  at  Dovenest, 
industrious  as  it  had  been,  almost  appeared  to  him  now, 
in  the  elation  of  his  hopeful  mind,  to  have  been  a  life  of 
indolence.  "  I  will  build  another  house  —  I  will  cultivate 
other  fields  —  I  will  become  a  sitter  in  another  kirk  —  I 
will  form  other  connections  —  not  to  the  forgetfulness  of 
any  one  thing,  place,  or  person  now  dear  to  me;  no  — 
no  —  never  shall  they  cease  from  my  grateful  remem- 
brance ;  but  to  all  those  1  will  add  other  enjoyments ;  and 
my  Agnes,  if  so  it  pleaseth  heaven,  my  beautiful  Agnes 
shall  be  yet  happier  than  ever." 

There  was  a  pastoral  farm  in  the  parish  of  Holylee, 
called  Bracken  Braes,  which  had  been  attached  to  one 
still  larger  several  years  ago,  but  which  was  again  to  be 
let  by  itself,  owing  to  the  mismanagement  and  failure  of 
the  tenant.  The  dwelling-house  had  been  suffered  to  go 
almost  entirely  into  decay  ;  but  the  agent  of  the  rich  pro- 
prietor, to  whom  a  large  district  of  the  country  belonged, 


THE    FORESTEBS.  49 

at  once  offered  to  repair  or  rebuild  it ;  and  Michael,  hav- 
ing easily  found  sureties,  took  the  farm.  Aunt  Isobel, 
out  of  her  jointure  as  a  minister's  widow,  had,  during 
upwards  of  thirty  years,  saved  three  hundred  pounds  ; 
and  Michael  knew  what  was  his  duty  too  well  to  refuse 
employing  that  sum  in  the  way  that  was  best  for  the  hap- 
piness of  the  household.  The  cheerful  old  lady  laughed 
on  confessing  her  unknown  riches;  but  tears  of  thankful- 
ness were,  at  the  same  time,  in  her  eyes,  when  she  knew 
what  a  blessing  was  now  in  her  little  store.  So,  while 
Agnes  was  happy  with  her  infant,  Lucy,  at  Dovenest,  Mi- 
chael frequently  visited  Bracken  Braes,  which  was  to  be 
ready  for  them  on  the  25th  of  May,  when  there  would 
be  a  joyful  flitting;  ay,  joyful,  even  although  it  was  to 
be  from  Dovenest:  although  that  gate  which  he  had  so 
often  unlatched  was  to  he  closed  behind  him  for  the  rest 
of  his  life. 

The  house  of  Bracken  Braes,  at  the  end  of  February, 
was  in  ruins.  The  messy  stone  wall,  round  what  had 
once  been  a  garden,  was,  in  many  places,  fallen  down  ; 
and,  here  and  there,  the  wild  sweetbriars  seenied  to  hold 
it  together  by  their  roots  and  tendrils.  ]n  that  defaced 
garden  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  a  few  gooseberry 
bushes  in  their  old  age,  almost  as  tall  and  wide  as  lilacs. 
A  sheltered  bourtree,  and  a  mountain  ash,  dwarfed  by 
the  browsing  cattle,  stood  at  one  gable  end  which  was 
yet  entire,  and  a  noble  plane, overshadowed  tlie  deserted 
domicile.  The  hill  side  behind,  from  whicli  the  place 
took  its  name,  was  sprinkled  with  brackens,  interspersed 
with  a  few  hazels;  while,  here  and  there,  a  holly,  with 
its  burnished  green,  brightened  the  pasture.  The  other 
low  hills,  near  at  hand,  were  smooth  and  bare;  but,  in 
the  distance,  was  a  range  of  heathery  mountains.  Seve- 
ral streams,  or  rather  runlets,  rose  impercei)tibly  round 
about;  in  droughty  weather,  no  doubt,  dried  up,  but  now, 
with  the  melted  snow,  clear  as  diamonds;  while  a  well, 
even  still  clearer,  and  never  known  to  have  been  dry, 
green  with  water  cresses,  and  resplendent  with  various 
vegetable  lustre,  had  Iain  there,  for  a  good  many  years, 


50  THE    FORESTERS. 

undisturbed  by  bowl  or  pitcher,  and  stirred  only  by  the 
shaggy  hill  ponies,  or  sportsman  lying  down  to- quench 
his  thirst,  when  in  pursuit  of  the  solitary  plover. 

Poets  are  fond  of  building  fairy  cottages  in  an  oasis  in 
the  desert,  or  perhaps  beneath  the  lake  waves,  or  in 
groves  of  air  at  the  rising  or  setting  of  golden  suns;  but 
here,  all  transformation,  sudden  and  beautiful  as  it  was, 
was  the  work  of  homely  human  skill,  laboring  on  the 
homeliest  materials.  A  small  quarry  of  blue  slate  stone, 
unworked  since  from  it  had  been  built  the  parish  kirk, 
nearly  a  century  ago,  was  cleared  of  brackens,  briars, 
and  foxgloves,  to  the  disturbance  of  nothing  but  the  little 
shy  wren  and  the  old  gray  hare;  and,  in  a  week,  the 
sledges  had  laid  down  beside  the  ruined  walls  wherewith- 
al to  rebuild  up  anew  their  ancient  proportions.  Mi- 
chael's own  hands  dug  the  foundations,  and  shaped  them 
into  lines  even  of  picturesque  beauty —  obeying  only  the 
character  of  the  ground,  and  its  small  jutting  angles. 
The  merry  masons  soon  ran  up  the  walls.  Several  oaks 
that  had  been  dug  up  from  a  neighboring  moss,  almost 
as  fresh  as  when  they  had  sunk  in  it,  furnished  the  lintels 
and  the  humble  roof  tree;  a  few  carts  of  wheat  straw 
from  the  sunny  and  fertile  fields  of  Stowe  were  enough 
to  form  a  thick  regular  thatch  roof,  impervious  to  the 
thawing  snows,  or  the  deluging  hill  rains ;  the  trowels 
covered  the  low  front  and  gable  ends  with  a  cheerful 
gleam  of  whiteness  that  perhaps  the  painter  might  have 
condemned,  but  which  was  to  smile  on  the  narrow  glen 
with  perpetual  sunshine;  and  there  was  the  homestead 
of  Bracken  Braes  seen,  from  foundation  stone  to  chim- 
ney top,  before  the  second  moon  had  entirely  withdrawn 
her  midnight  light  from  the  glittering  stream  of  Heriot 
Water. 

The  -sun,  on  the  25th  of  May,  rose  with  so  joyful  a 
lustre  upon  Dovenest,  that  all  its  inn)ates  felt  it  would  be 
worse  than  vain  to  be  very  sorrowful  ;  but,  even  before 
that  joyful  lustre  had  glinted  upon  the  woods  of  Dryden, 
Hawthornden,  and  Roslin,  all  its  inmates  had  been  mov- 
ing about  in  the  gray  and  uncertain  dawn.  They  had 
not  been  forced  to  sell  their  furniture,  nor  to  undergo  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  51 

mean  miseries  of  a  sale.  It  was  soon  despatched  towards 
Bracken  Braes.  Their  last  meal  was  taken  in  Doveiiest ; 
and,  if  some  tears  were  shed  as  they  were  going  down 
the  glen,  all  eyes  were  nearly  clear  before  they  reached 
Lasswade.  It  was  rather  like  a  party  of  pleasure  seeking 
a  rural  holiday  than  a  family  leaving  an  old  home. 

**  Ay,  yonder  is  our  new  dwelling-place!"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Isobei,  as,  during  one  of  the  cool  hours  before  eve- 
ning, the  little  cavalcade  turned  round  a  green  monad 
that  had  hidden  Bracken  Braes.  "  Look  yonder,  my 
jewel;  will  not  your  cradle  rock  pleasantly  yonder  like  a 
bit  nest  on  the  shady  bough?"  and  she  raised  up  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  that  certainly  smiled  an  answer  to  her 
cheerful  nurse.  In  a  few  minutes  Michael  took  Agnes 
in  his  arms,  and  welcomed  her  with  a  kiss  to  their  new- 
habitation  ;  and  there  she  stood  more  beautiful  and  be- 
loved than  even  on  that  afternoon  when  they  first  told  to 
each  other  their  pure  affection.  To  Agnes  the  scene 
around  her  was  far  more  than  enchantment.  Her  hus- 
band had  spoken  of  the  place  in  measured  praise,  fearing 
it  might  not  please  after  Dovenest.  But  it  was  so  differ- 
ent from  that  spot,  in  its  simple  pastoral  beauty,  that  Ag- 
nes loved  it  at  once,  without  any  comparisons,  for  its  own 
sake.  In  silent  joy  she  walked  with  her  husband —  Aunt 
Isobei  behind  them,  cherishing  and  singing  to  the  infant 

—  up  the  avenue  that  winded  round  a  knoll  to  the  front 
of  the  cottage.  There,  on  each  side  of  the  sloping 
banks,  were  the  very  self-sarhe  rose  trees  that  had  flour- 
ished so  richly  at  Dovenest —  many  of  the  very  self-same 
flowers  —  and  a  few  shrubs  that  had  been  especial  favor- 
ites. "They  are  taking  kindly  to  the  soil  already,"  said 
Michael.  "But  here  —  here,"  cried  Aunt  Isobei,  "here 
is  the  prettiest  flower  of  them  all  —  my  own  little  Lucy 
Forester,  the  primrose  of  Bracken  Braes  !" 

For  a  couple  of  hours  Aunt  Isobei  was  quite  in  her 
element,  arranging  every  thing  within  doors  and  without 

—  insisting,  all  the  time,  that  Agnes  should  not  fatigue 
herself,  but  remain  with  her  Lucy  on  the  seat  beneath 
the  plane  tree.  The  parlor  was  soon  furnished,  if  not 
with  the  same  orderly  neatness  which  it  received  next 


52  THE    FORKSTERS. 

d;jy,  very  passably  at  least,  consi'Jering  ail  the  hurry  and 
confusion;  and  it  was  needful  it  should  be  so,  for  a  party 
of  visiters  were  already  at  the  gate. 

Tiie  clergyman  of  tlie  parish,  and  his  sober-suited  sis- 
ter, Mr.  and  Miss  Kerniedy,  and  with  them  several  of  the 
most  respectable  neighbors,  (among  others,  Peter  Tait, 
the  formal  and  pragmatical  schoolmaster,)  had  come,  by 
Michael's  appointment,  to  give  a  welcome  to  their  new 
parishioners  at  Bracken  Braes.  Agnes  and  Aunt  Isobel, 
each  in  her  own  pleasant  way,  received  their  unexpected 
guests,  who  had  not  come  unprovided  ;  and  a  tea  party 
was  soon  laughing  and  talking  in  the  parlor.  By  and  by, 
the  twilight  softly  darkened  their  faces,  and  the  night 
hawk  was  heard  without,  whirring  at  intervals  his  mono- 
tonous song,  now  close  at  hand,  and  now  from  the  other 
side  of  the  glen.  The  kind  visiters,  with  a  warmth  like 
that  of  ancient  friendship,  said  farewell  beneath  the  still 
shadovv  of  the  plane  ;  and  the  family,  in  another  hour, 
had  all  thankfully  gone  to  rest  in  their  new  dwelling. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

Six  quiet  and  laborious  years,  every  week  and  month 
of  which  had,  no  doubt,  contained  its  own  little  interest- 
ing incidents,  had  brought  the  farm  of  Bracken  Braes  to 
the  perfection  of  pastoral  beauty.  Many  a  cold  marsh, 
with  its  long  unprofitable  rushes,  had  been  converted  into 
the  hard  firm  sod,  on  which  the  sheep  lay  with  their 
lambs  on  the  daisied  herbage.  Unseen  turf  fences  went 
winding  along  the  foot  of  every  eminence,  and  even  round 
and  round  the  lower  hills,  subdividing  the  whole  farm  into 
picturesque  enclosures.  Small  spots  of  rye  and  barley 
were  visible  among  the  heatlier  ;  the  turnip  field  shewed 
its  richer  verdure  beside  the  stony  slope  of  the  uplands  ; 
and,  down  in  the  haughs,  on  the  water  side,  bloomed  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  63 

white  and  purple  clover,  protected,  by  thick  thorn  hedges, 
from  the  cattle  browsing  on  the  old  lea  adjacent  to  the 
homestead.  That  homestead  looked  now  almost  like  a 
building  of  other  years  :  the  thatch  had  received  its 
weather  stains  —  the  most  beautiful  of  coloring  ;  but  little 
of  the  walls  below  the  eaves  could  be  discerned  through 
the  roses,  that  clustered  more  thickly  round  the  large 
vine-like  leaves  of  the  Virgin's  Bower;  the  very  shrub- 
beries now  cast  their  shadows  ;  and  the  old  plane  tree 
itself,  that  seemed  to  have  reached  its  growth  a  quarter 
of  a  century  before,  had  extended  its  branches  beyond 
the  roof,  and  darkened  the  parlor  twilight.  Every  bare 
nook  about  the  place  was  now  overgrown  ;  every  mark 
of  the  labor  that  had  created  cottage,  garden,  and  avenue, 
was  hidden  ;  all  the  little  stone  walls  were  covered  with 
moss  and  wild  creepers;  the  lanes  leading  away  to  neigh- 
bors' house,  sheep  fold,  shealing,  or  peat  moss,  were 
adorned  with  furze  and  hawthorns;  and  the  character  of 
the  whole  small  territory  was  that  of  completed  cultiva- 
tion, denoting  comfort  and  independence. 

Not  only  had  Michael  Forester  prospered  in  his  worldly 
circumstances,  and  gained  the  esteem  of  the  whole  parish, 
but,  during  these  six  years,  there  had  never  been  an  hour 
of  much  anxiety  at  his  fireside.  Agnes  Hay  —  for  he 
always  called  his  wife  by  her  own  sweet  nauie  —  had 
been  to  him  all  that  he  desired.  Agnes  certainly  was 
not  what  could  be  called  a  very  active  or  ruling  house- 
wife ;  for  gentleness  and  serenity  were  the  prevailing 
qualities  of  her  disposition,  and  she  allowed  the  stream 
of  life  quietly  to  murmur  by  in  her  contentment.  There 
was  no  waste  —  no  extravagance  —  no  carelessness  under 
her  mild  domestic  dominion  ;  but  her  arrangements  were 
all  noiseless  in  their  regularity,  and  proceeded  in  the 
spirit  of  peace.  If  there  was  any  one  thing  in  which  she 
ever  upbraided  herself  for  being  too  expensive,  it  was  in 
the  article  of  dress.  But  her  husband,  although  a  plain 
and  almost  austere  man  in  all  his  habits,  thought  Agnes 
Hay  the  most  beautiful  being  on  earth,  and  in  that  beauty 
he  placed  all  his  pride.     It  needed  not  many  ornaments, 


54 


THE    FORESTERS. 


but  it  could  bear  some,  without  iiny  diminution  of  its 
matronly  and  niaideiilike  simplicity.  Michael  himself 
worked  at  every  sort  of  labor,  and  in  all  weather  ;  but 
there  was  no  need  for  Agnes  to  perform  any  other  tasks, 
but  such  as  suited  her  somewhat  delicate  health  ;  and 
when  he  came  home  from  the  hill,  and  found  her  sitting 
at  her  needle,  dressed  as  he  desired,  and  with  Lucy  at 
her  work  too  beside  her  knee,  he  felt  his  whole  nature 
not  only  supported,  but  purified  by  the  cheerful  presence 
of  so  much  beauty,  innocence,  and  affection.  At  even- 
ing he  saw  those  for  whom  he  had  been  toiling  during 
the  day;  and  a  feeling  far  profounder  than  pride  or  ad- 
miration was  constantly  in  his  heart  whenever  he  left  or 
entered  the  humble  porch.  An  undisturbed  quiet  was 
for  ever  in  his  house,  broken  only  by  the  sharp  shrill  voice 
of  Aunt  Isobel,  who  liked  to  speak  in  an  upper  key,  or 
by  her  footsteps  still  quick  as  those  of  girlhood,  and, 
sweetest  of  all  sounds,  by  the  prattle  and  the  singing  of 
his  Lucy,  in  features  the  very  image  of  her  mother,  but 
the  most  gleesome  of  children,  and  wild  as  the  fawn  in 
the  wood.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  her  mirth,  Lucy 
would  fall  hush  in  a  moment  at  her  mother's  voice,  and 
all  the  smiles  nearly  disappear  in  the  composed  cheerful- 
ness of  her  eyes  and  forehead.  Then  those  golden  clus- 
ters lay  still  upon  her  fair  temples.  The  child,  at  the 
bidding  of  her  mother's  eye,  would  take  up  her  book  — 
perhaps  the  Bible  —  and  read  ;  or  in  employment  equally 
religious,  with  her  little  hands  would  set  the  house  in 
order  against  her  father's  return,  and  arrange  upon  the 
table  his  frugal  meal.  Vv^hether  the  lark  or  the  linnet 
sung  or  were  mule  in  the  open  air,  within  there  was  at 
all  times  a  music  that  never  was  heard  with  weariness, 
and  in  the  darkest  of  days  there  was  thus  a  sunbeam  in 
the  house. 

Lucy  was  only  six  years  old,  but  bold  as  a  fairy  —  she 
had  gone  by  herself  a  thousand  times  about  the  braes, 
and  often  upon  errands  to  houses  two  or  three  miles  dis- 
tant. What  had  her  parents  to  fear?  The  footpaths 
■were  all  firm,  and  led  throuoh  no  places  of  danger,  nor 
are  infants  of  themselves  incautious  when  alone  in  their 


THE    FORESIERS.  55 

pastimes.  Lucy  went  singing  into  the  coppice  woods, 
and  singing  she  reappeared  on  the  open  hill  side.  With 
her  small  white  hand  on  the  rail,  she  glided  along  the 
wooden  bridge,  or,  lightly  as  the  ouzel,  tripped  from  stone 
to  stone  across  the  shallow  streamlet.  The  creature 
would  be  away  for  hours,  and  no  fears  felt  on  her  account 
by  any  one  at  home — whether  she  had  gone  with  her 
basket  under  her  arm  to  borrow  some  articles  of  house- 
hold use  from  a  neighbor,  or  merely  for  her  own  solitary 
delight,  wandered  off  to  the  braes  to  play  among  the 
flowers,  coming  back  laden  with  wreaths  and  garlands. 
With  a  bonnet  of  her  own  sewing  to  shade  her  pretty 
face  from  the  sun,  and  across  her  shoulders  a  plaid,  in 
which  she  could  sit  dry  during  an  hour  of  the  heaviest 
rain  beneath  the  smallest  beild,  Lucy  passed  many  long 
hours  in  the  daylight,  and  thus  knew,  without  thinking 
of  it,  all  the  topography  of  that  pastoral  solitude,  and 
even  something  of  the  changeful  appearances  in  the  air 
and  sky. 

The  hnppy  child  had  been  invited  to  pass  a  whole  day, 
from  morning  to  night,  at  Ladyside,  (a  farm  house  about 
two  miles  off,)  with  her  playmates,  the  Maynes,  and  she 
left  home  about  an  hour  after  sunrise.  She  was  dressed 
for  a  holiday  ;  and  father,  and  mother,  and  Aunt  Isobel, 
all  three  kissed  her  sparkling  face  before  she  set  off  by 
herself,  and  stood  listening  to  her  singing,  till  her  small 
voice  was  lost  in  the  murmur  of  the  rivulet.  During  her 
absence,  the  house  was  silent,  but  happy;  and  the  even- 
ing being  now  far  advanced,  Lucy  was  expected  home 
every  minute;  and  Rlichael,  Agnes,  and  Isobel,  went  to 
meet  her  on  the  way.  They  walked  on  and  on,  wonder- 
ing a  little,  but  in  no  degree  alarmed,  till  they  reached 
Ladyside,  and  heard  the  cheerfid  din  of  the  imps  within 
still  rioting  at  the  close  of  the  holiday.  Jacob  Mayne 
came  to  the  door;  but  on  their  kindly  asking  why  Lucy 
had  not  been  sent  home  before  daylight  was  over,  he 
looked  painfully  surprised,  Jind  said  that  she  had  not 
been  at  Ladyside. 

Agnes  suddenly  sat  down,  without  speaking  one  word, 
on  the  stone  seat  beside  the  door,   and   Michael,  support- 


m 


THE    FORESTERS. 


mg  her,  said  —  "  Jacob,  our  child  left  us  this  morning  at 
six  o'clock,  and  it  is  now  near  ten  at  night.  .God  is 
merciful ;  but,  perhaps,  Lucy  is  dead."  Jacob  Mayne 
was  an  ordinary,  commonplace,  and  rather  ignorant  man  ; 
but  his  heart  leapt  within  him  at  these  words,  and  by 
this  time  his  own  children  were  standing  about  the  door. 
"  Yes,  Mr.  Forester,  God  is  merciful ;  and  your  daughter, 
let  us  trust,  is  not  dead.  Let  us  trust  that  she  yet  liveth  ; 
and,  without  delay,  let  us  go  to  seek  the  child."  Michael 
trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  voice  Avas  gone  ;  he 
lifted  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  but  it  seemed  not  as  if  he 
saw  either  the  moon  or  the  stars.  "  Run  over  to  Rae- 
shaw,  some  of  you,"  said  Jacob,  "  and  tell  what  has 
happened.  Do  you,  Isaac,  my  good  boy,  cross  over  to  a' 
the  towns  on  the  Inverleithen  side,  and,  O  Mr.  Forester, 
Mr.  Forester !  dinna  let  this  trial  owrecome  you  sae 
sairly ;"  for  Michael  was  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the 
house,  and  the  strong  man  was  helpless  as  a  child. 
"  Keep  up  your  heart,  my  dearest  son,"  said  Isobel,  with 
a  voice  all  unlike  her  usual ;  "  keep  up  your  heart,  for 
the  blessed  bairn  is,  beyond  doubt,  somewhere  in  the 
keeping  of  the  great  God  —  yea,  without  a  hair  of  her 
head  being  hurt.  A  hundred  things  may  have  happened 
her,  and  death  not  among  the  number.  Oh!  no  —  no  — 
surely  not  death  —  that  would  indeed  be  too  dreadful  a 
judgment!  "  and  Aunt  Isobel,  oppressed  by  the  power  of 
that  word,  now  needed  the  very  comfort  that  she  had  in 
vain  tried  to  bestow. 

Within  two  hours  a  hundred  people  were  traversing 
the  hills  in  all  directions,  even  to  a  distance  which  it 
seemed  most  unlikely  that  poor  Lucy  could  have  reached. 
The  shepherds  and  their  dogs,  all  night  through,  searched 
every  nook  —  every  stony  and  rocky  place  —  every  little 
shaw  —  every  piece  of  taller  heather  —  every  crevice  that 
could  conceal  anything  alive  or  dead  ;  but  no  Lucy  was 
there.  Her  mother,  who  for  a  while  seemed  inspired 
with  supernatural  strength,  had  joined  in  the  search,  and, 
with  a  quaking  heart,  looked  into  every  brake,  or  stopped 
and  listened  to  shout  and  hollo  reverberating  among  the 
hills,  if  she  could  seize  on  some  tone  of  recognition  or 


THE    FORESTERS.  -  57 

discovery.  But  the  moon  sank  ;  and  then  all  the  stars, 
whose  increased  briglitiics.s  had  ibr  a  short  time  supplied 
her  place,  all  faded  away,  and  then  came  the  gray  dawn 
of  morning,  and  then  the  clear  brightness  of  day,  and 
still  Michael  and  Agnes  were  childless.  "  She  has  sunk 
into  some  mossy  or  miry  place,"  said  Michael,  to  a  man 
near  him,  into  whose  face  he  never  looked.  "  A  cruel, 
cruel  death  for  one  like  her;  the  earth  on  which  my  child 
walked  has  closed  over  her,  and  we  shall  never  see  her 
more  ! " 

At  last  a  man,  who  had  left  the  search  and  gone  in  a 
directions  towards  the  high  road,  came  running,  with 
something  in  his  arms,  towards  the  place  where  Michael 
and  others  \^re  standing  beside  Agnes,  who  lay  apparently 
exhausted  almost  to  dying  on  the  sward.  He  approached 
hesitatingly  ;  and  Michael  saw  that  he  carried  Lucy's 
bonnet,  clothes,  and  plaid.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see 
some  spots  of  blood  upon  the  frill  that  the  child  had  worn 
round  her  neck.  "  Murdered  —  murdered,"  was  the  one 
word  whispered  or  ejaculated  all  around ;  but  Agnes 
heard  it  not;  for,  worn  out  by  that  long  night  of  hope 
and  despair,  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  was  perhaps  seek- 
ing her  lost  Lucy  in  her  dreams. 

Isobel  took  the  clothes,  and,  narrowly  inspecting  them 
with  eye  and  hand,  said,  with  a  fervent  voice,  that  was 
heard  even  in  Michael's  despair — "No;  Lucy  is  yet 
among  the  living.  There  are  no  marks  of  violence  on 
the  garments  of  the  innocent  —  no  murderer's  hand  has 
been  here.  These  blood  spots  have  been  put  there  to 
deceive.  Besides,  would  not  the  murderer  have  carried 
off  these  things  ?  For  what  else  would  he  have  murdered 
her?  But,  O  foolish  despair!  what  speak  1  of?  For 
wicked  as  this  world  is —  ay,  desperately  wicked  —  there 
is  not,  on  all  the  surface  of  the  wide  earth,  a  hand  that 
would  murder  our  child  !  Is  it  not  plain  as  that  sun  in 
heaven  that  Lucy  has  been  stolen  by  some  wretched 
gypsy  beggar,  and  that,  before  that  sun  has  set,  she  will 
be  saying  her  prayers  in  her  father's  house,  with  all  of  us 
upon  our  knees  beside  her,  or  with  our  faces  prostrate 
upon  the  floor  ?  " 


58  THE    FORESTERS. 

Agnes  opened  her  eyes  and  beheld  Lucy's  bonnet  and 
plaid  lying  close  beside  lier,  and  then  a  silent  crowd. 
Her  senses  all  at  once  returned  to  her,  and  she  rose  up 
—  "  Ay,  sure  enough,  drowned — drowned  —  drowned; 
but  where  have  you  laid  her?  Let  me  see  our  Lucy, 
Michael ;  for  in  my  sleep  I  have  already  seen  her  laid 
out  fof  burial."  The  crowd  quietly  dispersed,  and  horse 
and  foot  began  to  scour  the  country.  Some  took  the  high- 
road, others  all  the  by-paths,  and  many  the  trackless 
hills.  Now  that  they  were  in  some  measure  relieved 
from  the  horrible  belief  that  the  child  was  dead,  the  worst 
other  calamity  seemed  nothing,  f(ir  hope  brought  her 
back  to  their  arms.  Agnes  had  been  able  to  walk  to 
Bracken  Braes;  and  Michael  and  Isobel  saU-by  her  bed- 
side. Lucy's  empty  little  crib  was  just  as  the  child  had 
left  it  the  morning  before,  neatly  made  up  with  her  own 
hands,  and  her  small  red  Bible  was  lying  on  the  pillow. 

"  O  my  husband  !  — this  is  being  indeed  kind  to  your 
Agnes ;  for  much  it  must  have  cost  you  to  stay  here  :  but 
had  you  left  me,  my  silly  heart  had  ceased  to  beat  alto- 
gether ;  for  it  will  not  lie  still  even  now  that  T  am  well 
nigh  resigned  to  the  will  of  God."  Michael  put  his  hand 
on  his  wife's  bosom,  and  he  felt  her  heart  beating  as  if  it 
were  a  knell.  Then,  ever  and  anon,  the  tears  came 
gushing,  for  all  her  strength  was  gone,  and  she  lay  at  the 
mercy  of  the  rustle  of  a  leaf  or  a  shadow  across  the  win- 
dow. And  thus  hour  after  hour  past  on  till  it  was  again 
twilight. 

"  I  hear  footsteps  coming  up  the  brae,"  said  Agnes, 
who  had  for  some  time  appeared  to  be  slumbering  ;  and, 
in  a  few  moments,  the  voice  of  Jacob  Mayne  was  heard 
at  the  outer  door.  It  was  no  time  for  ceremony,  and  he 
advanced  into  the  room  where  the  family  had  been  during 
all  that  trying  and  endless  day.  Jacob  wore  a  solemn 
expression  of  countenance;  and  he  seemed,  from  his 
looks,  to  bring  them  no  comfort.  Michael  stood  up  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife,  and  looked  into  his  heart. 
Something  there  seemed  to  be  in  his  face  that  was  not 
miserable.  If  he  has  heard  nothing  of  my  child,  thought 
Michael,  this  man  must  care  but  little  for  his  own  fireside. 


THE    FORESTERS.  59 

"O  speak,  speak!"  said  Agnes;  "yet  why  need  you 
speak?  All  this  has  been  but  a  vain  belief,  and  Lucy  is 
in  heaven." — "Something  like  a  trace  of  her  has  been 
discovered  :  a  woman  with  a  child,  that  did  not  look  like 
a  child  of  her's,  was  last  night  at  Ciovenford,  and  left  it 
by  the  dawning." — "Do  you  hear  that,  my  beloved  Ag- 
nes 1 "  said  Jsobel :  "  she  'II  have  tramped  away  with  Lucy 
up  into  Ettrick  or  Yarrow;  but  hundreds  of  eyes  will 
have  been  upon  her,  for  these  are  quiet,  but  not  solitary 
glens;  and  the  hunt  will  be  over  long  before  she  has 
crossed  down  upon  Hawick.  I  knew  that  country  in  my 
young  days.  What  say  ye,  Mr.  Mayne?  there's  the  light 
of  hope  on  your  face." — "There's  nae  reason  to  doubt, 
ma'am,  that  it  was  Lucy.  Every  body  is  sure  o't.  If  it 
was  my  ain  Rachel,  I  should  hae  nae  fear  o'  seeing  her 
this  blessed  nicht." 

Jacob  Mayne  now  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down,  with 
even  a  smile  upon  his  countenance.  "I  may  tell  you, 
noo,  that  Watty  Oliver  kens  it  was  your  bairn,  for  he 
saw  her  limping  after  the  limmer  at  Gala  Brig;  but  hae- 
ing  nae  suspicion,  he  didna  tak  a  second  leuk  o'  her;  but 
ae  leuk  is  sufficient,  and  he  swears  it  was  bonny  Lucy 
Forester."  Aunt  Isobel,  by  this  time,  had  bread  and 
cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  her  own  elder-flower  wine  on  the 
table.  "You  have  had  a  long-and  hard  journey,  wher- 
ever you  have  been,  Mr.  Mayne;  take  some  refresh- 
ment :"  and  Michael  asked  a  blessing.  Jacob  saw  that 
he  might  now  venture  to  reveal  the  whole  truth.  "  No, 
no,  Mrs.  Irvine,  I  am  owre  happy  to  eat  or  to  drink. 
You  are  a'  prepared  for  the  blessing  that  awaits  you  ; 
your  bairn  is  no  far  off;  and  I  mysel' —  for  it  was  I  iTiy- 
sel'  that  found  her  —  will  bring  her  by  the  ban',  and  re- 
store her  to  her  parents  "  Agnes  had  raised  herself  up 
in  her  bed  at  these  words,  but  she  sunk  gently  back  on 
her  pillow ;  Aunt  Isobel  was  rooted  to  her  chair  ;  and 
Michael,  as  he  rose  up,  felt  as  if  the  ground  were  sinking 
under  his  feet. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  all  round  the  house  for  a 
short  space,  and  then  the  sound  of  many  joyful  voices, 
which  again,  by  degrees,  subsided.    The  eyes  of  all,  then. 


60  THE    FORESTERS. 

looked,  and  yet  feared  to  look,  towards  the  door.  Jacob 
Mayne  was  not  as  good  as  liis  word,  for  he  did  not  bring 
Lucy  by  the  hand  to  restore  her  to  her  parents  ;  but, 
dressed  again  in  her  own  bonnet,  and  her  own  gown,  and 
her  own  plaid,  in  rushed  their  child,  by  lierself,  with 
tears  and  sobs  of  joy;  and  her  father  laid  her  within  her 
mother's  bosom. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

Jacob  Mayne  had  not,  perhaps,  either  felt  more  or 
exerted  himself  more  than  his  other  neighbors  on  the  oc- 
casion of  Lucy's  disappearance;  but  her  parents  contin- 
ued to  entertain  towards  iiiin  an  especial  gratitude.  His 
was  the  first  sympathy  they  had  received,  and  he  it  was 
that  rescued  Lucy  from  that  cruel  gypsy.  Henceforth 
they  could  never  see  him  without  emotion  ;  and,  as  he 
was  a  worthy  man,  a  lasting  friendship  was  cemented  be- 
tween the  families  of  Bracken  Braes  and  Ladyside.  Ja- 
cob, whose  wife  was  living — a  quiet  homely  woman  — 
had  one  son,  a  boy  of  surprising  abilities,  now  about  ten 
years,  and  two  daughters,  only  a  year  or  two  older  than 
Lucy.  They  were  her  chief  companions ;  but  the  girl 
that  Lucy  loved  most,  as  she  grew  up,  was  Mary  Morri- 
son, of  Evvebank,  the  only  daughter  of  a  widower.  Ewe- 
bank  was  farther  off  than  Ladyside,  and,  indeed,  in  an- 
other parish.  Even  that  imaginary  distinction  helps  to 
keep  families  apart  more  than  distance;  and,  in  tliis  case, 
a  range  of  hills  that  might  almost  be  called  mountains 
intervened  ;  so  that  Lucy  did  not  see  Mary  Morrison 
oftener  than  perhaps  once  a  month,  on  an  average, 
through  the  whole  year.  But  there  was  something  in  the 
nature  of  these  two  young  liappy  creatures,  that,  all  un- 
known to  themselves,  knit  their  hearts  to  each  other. 
Lucy  thought  there  was  no  fiice  among  all  her  other 
friends  nearly  so  delightful   as   the   meek  fice   of  Marv 


THE    FOKESTERS.  61 

Morrison;  and  Mary,  who  was  ratlier  the  elder  of  the 
two,  sometimes  contrived  an  excuse  for  a  walk  over  to 
the  Heriot  Water,  merely  to  seethe  joyful  sHiiles  of  Lucy 
Forester.  Mary  lived  in  a  very  lonesome  house,  with  a 
father  who,  no  doubt,  loved,  but  who  was  far  from  being 
gentle  towards  her ;  and  the  thought  of  tlie  cheerful  par- 
lor of  Bracken  Braes  often  brought  the  tear  to  her  eye, 
when  she  looked  at  the  hill  range  that  separated  it  from 
the  dull  solitude  of  Ewebank. 

Jacob  Mayne  had  a  brother  —  a  man  of  some  property 
—  who  had  lost  his  wife  and  only  son  many  years  aoro. 
Jacob  himself  had  had  severe  struggles  with  the  world, 
and  was  now  far  from  being  prosperous.  lie  could  live, 
and  clothe,  and  educate  his  children  decently  ;  but  that 
was  all.  He  had  not  been  able  to  lay  by  a  single  shilling, 
and  scarcely  any  new  article  of  furniture  had  come  into 
the  house  for  a  good  many  years.  Perhaps  he  was  some- 
what soured  in  his  temper  by  this  continued  poverty ; 
and  what  occasionally  still  more  depressed  him,  was  the 
total  cessation  of  all  intercourse  between  himself  and  his 
brother,  owing  to  one  of  those  fatal  (piarrels  which,  be- 
ginning in  the  merest  trifles,  uniuielligihle  to  all  persons 
but  the  parties  themselves,  eventually  alienate  affection, 
and  leave  those  who  in  youth  slept  in  the  same  bed,  to 
travel  down,  angrily  and  apart,  to  the  grave.  Michael 
Forester  had  endeavored  to  reconcile  them,  but  in  vain; 
and  he  had  even  so  offended  Jacob  Mayne  by  his  inter- 
ference, that,  for  a  short  time,  their  familiar  friendship 
had  been  disturbed.  The  children,  however,  had  always 
continued  to  play  with  each  other,  and,  while  that  is  the 
case,  the  parents  wait  an  opportunity  for  reconcilement; 
while  Agnes  Hay,  who  had  "been  a  peace-maker,  ever 
since  she  had  come  into  the  parish,  had  done  so  many 
delicate  kindnesses  to  Jacob's  wife,  that,  at  last,  one  day 
at  the  kirk,  Jacob  came  cordially  up  to  the  group,  among 
whom  Michael  was  standing  during  the  ringing  of  the 
bell,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  him  about  the 
concerns  of  both  their  houses. 

About   two  years   after  Lucy's   adventure,  'here  was  a 
6 


62  THE    FORESTERS. 

deep  sensation  sent  tln-ough  every  household,  by  the  dis- 
covery of  a  sacrilegious  crime  perpetrated  by  a  inan  who, 
up  to  the  time  of  that  wretched  wickedness,  had  borne 
the  highest  character  for  probity  and  religion  —  no  other 
than  this  wealthy  brother  of  Jacob  Mayne.  The  unhap- 
py man  was  an  elder;  and  had  been  observed,  by  a  poor 
old  woman,  who  had  sat  down,  unobserved,  to  rest  her- 
self in  a  shade  close  to  the  church  gate,  to  take  money 
out  of  the  poor's  plate,  and  secrete  it  about  his  person. 
The  pauper  watched  him  several  Sabbatiis  ;  and,  at  last, 
issued  out  of  her  concealment,  and  suddenly  charged 
him  with  his  guilt,  to  which  she  said  she  had  frequently 
before  been  an  eye-witness.  In  the  tribulation  of  detect- 
ed sacrilege,  Richard  Mayne  had  not  a  word  to  speak. 
The  fierce  old  crone  cried  out  against  him  till  her  voice 
was  heard  in  the  kirk  ;  and,  before  a  crowd  of  people 
who  would  all  have  disbelieved  her  as  a  maniac,  the  elder 
confessed  his  guilt,  and  demanded  to  be  led  to  prison. 

The  very  horror  of  the  crime  quelled,  in  all  hearts, 
any  desire  of  punishment.  It  shook  the  whole  parish  like 
an  earthquake,  and  there  was  a  disturbed  silence  in  every 
house.  Who  miglit  dare  to  say  he  could  stand  fast,  when 
Richard  Mayne  had  fallen  under  the  temptation  of  Mam- 
mon, whom  it  now  appeared  he  had  served,  and  not  the 
living  God?  Miserable  man  !  what  to  him  was  money 
—  the  money  of  the  poor  1  His  wife  and  his  son  —  they 
slept  in  the  grave  ;  and  for  himself,  who  was  more  ab- 
stemious than  he  —  who  more  temperate — and  who, 
until  this  hidden  sacrilege,  in  all  his  dealings  more  rigid- 
ly just  ?  And  of  what  had  Richard  M ay ne,  the  rich  elder, 
during  the  unknown  length  of  his  crime,  robbed  the  few 
paupers  in  the  parish  ^ —  that  palsied  widow  and  three 
other  aged  women,  bedridden  or  tottering  on  crutches  — 
the  two  cripples,  one  so  afflicted  from  his  youth,  and  the 
other  crushed  at  his  work  by  a  fidling  stone —  and  him, 
that  harmless  creature,  to  whom  reason  had  been  denied? 
Perhaps,  altogether,  a  few  pounds,  the  loss  of  which  had 
been  felt  in  their  salt  and  their  meal,  in  their  miserable 
daily  dole,  by  the  palsied,  the  blind,  the  lame,  and  the 
lunatic.     Jacob  Mayne,  oppressed  with  sliame,  absented 


THE    FORESTERS.  63 

himself,  with  all  his  family,  from  the  kirk  —  shut  himself 
up  in  his  house,  round  which  no  figure  was  seen  moving 
—  and  no  one,  for  a  time,  went  near  the  abode  of  the 
gray-headed  worker  of  iniquity,  nor  knew  whether  he 
was  alive  or  dead.  Mr.  Kennedy,  the  minister,  had  in- 
deed gone  to  his  house,  and  knocked  at  the  door;  but  a 
low  miserable  voice  told  him  to  go  away  ;  and  as  he 
looked  up,  on  his  departure,  to  a  window,  he  beheld  the 
countenance  of  Richard  Mayne,  as  if  it  were  that  of  an 
evil  spirit  already  undergoing  its  punishment.  His  only 
domestic  had  never  returned  to  the  house  since  that  Sun- 
day ;  nor  had  any  smoke  been  seen  since  then  from  his 
chin)ney.  Pity  had  not  yet  begun  to  work  —  at  least  not 
outwardly  —  in  any  human  heart  towards  this  great  sin- 
ner.    Even  his  brother  yet  stood  aloof 

One  night,  after  Isobel  and  Lucy  had  gone  to  rest, 
Agnes  said  —  "O  Michael!  will  you  not  go  and  see  the 
wretched  old  man  —  if  he  be  indeed  in  life?  This  mis- 
ery must  be  more  than  he  can  bear."  The  summer  fire 
had  been  for  some  time  dead  on  the  hearth,  but  the  bright 
moonlight  filled  the  room,  and  the  door  was  not  yet  latch- 
ed. A  shadow  fell  on  the  floor  as  Agnes  was  speaking, 
and  Richard  Mayne  himself  was  in  their  presence.  Long 
and  rueful  was  the  old  man's  confession;  and  Michael 
now  thought  that  he  descried  in  him,  what,  before  the 
crime,  he  had  never  noticed,  although,  no  doubt,  it  had 
then  existed  —  a  manifest  taint  of  insanity.  In  all  his 
remorse — and  it  had  worn  him  to  the  bone  —  his  hag- 
gard eyes  still  gleamed  when  he  spoke  of  the  coins  he 
had  stolen  from  the  poor;  and  betrayed,  in  a  crafty  and 
suspicious  leer,  the  passion  of  the  miser.  The  old  man 
wept  when  Michael  told  him,  great  as  had  been  his  crime, 
to  hope  for  mercy ;  but  as  he  wept,  he  bitterly  accused 
his  brother  of  hard-hearted  cruelty  ;  and,  with  a  tremu- 
lous voice,  swore  before  his  Maker  that  he  would  leave 
any  thing  he  had  past  that  family.  "  I  have  always  re- 
ceived more  kindness  from  you,  Mr.  Forester,  than  any 
other  man  in  the  parish,  and  I  have  made  my  will  in  your 
favor.  Yes,  I  have  made  my  will  —  I  have  indeed  made 
my  will  —  a  good  hundred  pound  to  the  poor  —  and  the 


64  THE    FOKESXERS. 

rest,  in  money  and  bonds,  to  you,  sir;  for  you  ofien  call- 
ed in  upon  nie,  and  were  a  moderate  man  in  all  your  bar- 
gains. But  I  have  not  long  to  live;  and  to-inorrow  I 
will  shew  myself  at  market,  and  next  Lord's  day  I  will 
shew  myself  at  church.  God  grant  that  she  be  not  there 
who  saw  these  withered  hands  robbing  the  widow  and 
the  fatherless;  yet  there  she  cannot  be,  for  they  tell  me 
she  is  de;id  ;  and,  O  sir,  does  not  her  ghost  come  every 
midnight,  and  stand,  pointing  and  laughing,  with  a  pal- 
sied hand,  with  bleared  eyes,  on  the  old  white-headed  Ju- 
das Iscariot  on  his  straw  1  " 

Michael,  in  the  morning,  conducted  back  the  unhappy 
old  man  to  his  own  house,  and  got  a  person  to  take  care 
of  him  for  the  short  time  he  had  to  live.  At  church  and 
market,  however,  Richard  Mayne  appeared.  Few  re- 
mained near  him,  even  as  if  he  had  been  an  infectious 
lazar.  His  brother  had,  for  the  first  time,  that  Sabbath 
attended  Divine  service ;  but  he  left  the  kirk  with  his 
family  by  a  door  at  the  other  end  from  that  where  the 
excommunicated  elder  sat;  and  as  he  never  even  looked 
up,  it  is  supposed  he  did  not  see  the  old  man.  In  a  few 
weeks  Richard  Mayne  died,  and  Michael  Forester  gave 
orders  about  his  funeral.  His  brother  received  an  inti- 
mation of  it,  but  did  not  attend.  Nobody  was  asked  to 
be  present  but  the  bearers  ;  and  Mr.  Kennedy  and  Mi- 
chael Forester  let  down  the  coffin,  and  said  —  "Dust  to 
dust!" 

It  was  soon  known  over  all  the  parish  that  the  unhappy 
man  had  left  all  his  property  to  Mr.  Forester.  In  a  few 
days  Jacob  Mayne  came  over  to  Bracken  Braes,  and  sat 
down  with  a  face  of  angry  determination.  "  I  have  been 
a  poor  man  all  my  life,  JMr.  Forester  ;  and,  thank  God, 
with  a  clear  conscience  and  a  well-behaved  family,  I  can 
submit  to  poverty  for  the  few  years  I  have  to  live.  Much 
good  may  my  brother's  money  do  you,  Mr.  Forester;  but 
the  love  of  money  is  said  in  Scripture  to  be  the  root  of 
all  evil,  and  it  was  so  with  my  brother  Richard.  For 
ourselves,  sir,  u'e  were  all  tolerably  well  off  at  Ladyside 
before  you  came  among  us  ;  and  we  can  live,  although 
our  families  shall  henceforth  be  strangers.     You  under- 


THE    FORESTERS.  G5 

Stand  me,  Mr.  Forester.  As  for  you,  Mrs.  Forester,  I 
have  always  respected  you  —  ay,  your  face  was  always 
welcome  in  our  house.  But  this  injustice  has  struck 
deep,  and  I  could  curse  the  hour  in  which  I  was  born." 
With  these  words,  Jacob  raised  himself  upon  his  staff', 
and  said  —  "  Here  I  shake  the  dust  off  my  shoes  —  let  us 
never  more  speak  in  this  world." 

Michael  Forester  had  gone  into  his  own  room  during 
Jacob's  speech,  and  now  returned  with  some  parchments 
in  his  hand. 

"  Jacob,  this  is  your  poor  brother's  will  ;"  and,  so  say- 
ing, he  put  it  into  the  fire,  which  was  burning  briskly  on 
a  somewhat  chill  evening.  "  You  are  your  brother's  na- 
tural and  only  heir,  my  worthy  friend  ;  and  the  property 
he  knew  not  how  to  use,  (but  you  must  think  on  him 
with  the  deepest  pity,  for  he  was  not  in  his  sound  mind,) 
may  it  for  many  years  prove  a  blessing  to  you  all  at  La- 
dyside." 


CHAPTER    X. 

What  a  blessed  change  from  a  long  lot  of  poverty,  in 
which  the  wants  and  necessities  of  each  day  are  with 
difficulty  supplied,  leaving  to-morrow  and  all  its  uncertain 
demands  unprovided  for,  and  still  lowering  upon  the 
anxious  foresight,  to  such  a  competency  of  this  world's 
woods  as  sets  the  hearts  of  parents  free,  at  once  and  for 
ever,  from  all  anxieties  but  those  that  must  in  every  con- 
dition attend  upon  their  children's  conduct  —  their  errors 
or  their  well-doing!  It  is  a  blessing  felt  over  all  our 
moral  nature,  to  know  that  our  board,  however  frugal, 
can  be  duly  spread  in  security  and  peace ;  and  that, 
should  we  be  called  away  on  a  short  warning,  those  whom 
we  leave  behind  us  will  not  fiill  away  from  comfort  into 
any  destitution.  Domestic  virtue  is  almost  only  another 
name  for  domestic  peace;  and,  although  assuredly  many 
6* 


6(}  THE    FORESTERS. 

bear  extreir.est  penury,  not  only  without  detriment  to 
their  character,  but  to  its  purification  and  increased  vigor, 
yet,  with  people  in  general,  extreme  abasement  of  condi- 
tion does  mournfully  abase  the  soul,  and  even  our  natural 
affections  themselves  pine  and  dwindle  in  that  cold  and 
cheerless  atmosphere. 

This  truth  was  now  gratefully  felt  by  the  family  of  the 
Maynes.  Now  that  his  mind  was  relieved  from  that 
trouble  of  anxiety  about  his  wife  and  children,  which  had 
more  or  less  disturbed  him  by  day  and  night,  almost  from 
the  year  of  his  marriage,  Jacob  Mayne  saw  distinctly  the 
duties  he  had  either  neglected  altogether,  or  very  imper- 
fectly performed.  He  reHected,  with  surprise  and  sorrow, 
on  his  fretful  and  irritable  temper,  that  had  so  often  made 
the  house  unhappy  —  on  his  unreasonable  demands  on 
his  wife  and  children,  who,  do  what  they  would,  never 
could  please  him  —  on  causeless  quarrels  among  those 
who  yet  loved  one  another  —  on  many  long  evenings  of 
silent  dissatisfaction,  more  painful  in  retrospect  than  the 
angriest  contentions  —  and,  above  all,  on  his  unpardona- 
ble, his  unchristian  conduct  to  his  brother,  with  whom 
he  had  cherished  an  inveterate  dissension,  and  had  suffered 
to  lead  that  unbefriended  and  lonesome  life  that  had 
finally  preyed,  as  it  would  now  seem,  on  his  very  reason, 
till,  under  the  power  of  a  diseased  passion,  he  perpetrated 
a  crime  that  was  expiated  on  earth  by  death  and  infamy. 
To  these,  and  many  other  such  thoughts,  his  mind  and 
his  heart  now  gave  a  ready  entrance;  and  he  confessed, 
in  sincere  contrition,  all  his  manifold  errors  to  Michael 
Forester,  whose  noble  character,  in  spite  of  all  the  best 
means  and  opportunities  of  knowledge,  he  had  grievously 
misunderstood,  and  whom  he  had  not  hesitated  to  accuse 
to  his  face  of  hypocrisy  and  injustice. 

But  there  was  no  reason  why  honest  Jacob  should  not 
in  due  time  forget  his  errors.  His  hard-working  wife 
now  wore  a  smiling  face,  that  reminded  him  of  what  it 
was  long  ago,  when  he  crossed  the  moors  to  visit  her  at 
her  father's  house.  His  girls  could  now  show  themselves 
at  church  or  market  with  the  very  best  in  the  parish,  nor 
yet  subject   their   parents  to  a   charge  of  extravagance; 


THE    FORESTERS.  67 

and,  above  all,  his  son  Isaac,  the  pride  of  the  country 
side,  could  now  be  sent  to  college,  and  become  a  scholar. 
Nor  was  Jacob,  bad  judge  as  he  was  of  such  matters 
deceived  in  this;  for  his  son  was  indeed  a  boy  of  surpass- 
ing genius  —  a  boy  of  many  tiiousand  —  born  although 
he  was  of  such  very  ordinary  people,  and  without  one 
single  advantage  —  working  in  the  fields,  even  at  that 
tender  age,  during  most  of  the  hours  that  he  could  spare 
from  the  parish  school.  His  vacations  had  been  little 
else  than  a  month's  bodily  toil  ;  but  nature  had  lavished 
upon  him  her  choicest  mental  gifts;  and,  in  his  ample 
forehead  and  full  clear  eyes,  there  was  apparent  the  ex- 
pression of  an  extraordinary  intellect.  Michael  Forester 
approved  of  the  plan  of  sending  him  to  college  ;  and, 
accordingly,  before  he  had  perfected  his  twelfth  year, 
Isaac  Mayne,  the  pale-faced  thoughtful  scholar  of  Lady- 
side,  left,  for  the  first  time,  the  farm  house  in  which  he 
was  born,  and,  without  friend  or  patron,  entered  with 
enthusiasm  on  his  academical  career. 

On  the  death  of  Richard  Mayne,  Michael  Forester 
was  made  an  elder,  and  thus  was  broug'ht  more  frequently 
into  immediate  intercourse  with  Mr.  Kennedy.  Michael 
had  always  been  a  respected  guest  at  the  manse;  but  he 
knew  his  own  situation,  and  kept  it.  Mr.  Kennedy  was 
a  man  of  literary  habits,  and  had  also,  for  some  years, 
employed  his  leisure  hours  in  educating  the  sons  of  sev- 
eral of  the  neighboring  gentry.  Michael  never  intruded 
himself  upon  his  minister's  retirement ;  but  they  often 
met,  notwithstanding,  and  might  be  said  to  have  been  on 
a  footing  of  friendship  ever  since  Michael  came  to  Bracken 
Braes.  Nor  are  there  any  purer  sweeteners  of  our  mortal 
lot  than  those  calm  and  tempered  friendships  that,  while 
they  scarcely  seem  to  constitute  any  sensible  portion  of 
our  life,  do  yet  shed  their  perpetual  influence  over  it  all, 
keeping  alive,  within  hearts  that  feel  each  other's  worth, 
all  the  best  human  affections,  unimpaired  by  distance  or 
by  time,  and  ready,  on  the  slightest  call  of  duty,  to  rise 
up  from  their  silent  harboi",  and  display  their  streno-th  in 
the  most  disinterested  and  arduous  exertions. 

Michael's  duty,  as  an  elder,  took   him   more  than  for- 


68  THE    FORESTERS. 

merly  into  the  houses  of  his  brother  parishioners,  most 
frequently  in  company  with  Mr.  Kennedy,  but  often 
alone  ;  and  sometimes,  too,  his  wife  and  daughter  wenl 
with  him  when  his  visits  were  to  the  sick  or  the  poor: 
nor  was  Aunt  Isobel  ever  found  absent  when  she  could 
be  a  comfort  by  fire  or  bedside.  Thus  Lucy,  who  had 
now  reached  her  tenth  year,  had  her  wild  spirits  tamed 
down  by  the  knowledge  of  duty  and  distress.  As  quiet 
and  still  were  all  the  pretty  creature's  motions  in  a  sick 
room,  as  they  were  dancing  and  gleesome  on  the  green 
sward.  The  smiles  that  were  native  to  her  eyes  were 
not  the  smiles  of  heartless  levity,  that  soon  cease  to  charm 
even  on  the  face  of  beautiful  childhood,  but  they  were 
the  smiles  of  an  involuntary  joyfulness  she  could  not  help, 
and  never  tried  to  cherish,  intermingled  as  it  was  by 
nature  with  the  innocence  of  a  guileless  heart.  The 
more  love  she  gave  away,  the  more  did  love  overflow 
within  her  bosom.  She  loved  her  father,  her  mother, 
Aunt  Isobel,  Isaac  Mayne,  his  sisters,  his  parents  —  all 
with  a  different  affection;  and  meek  Mary  Morrison, 
who  dwelt  beyond  all  the  braes,  for  her  she  kept,  as  it 
were,  a  secret  corner  of  her  heart,  where  none  other  en- 
tered but  she  ;  and  if  weeks  and  months  passed  by,  and  no 
Mary  Morrison  came  over  to  Bracken  Braes,  yet  still  the 
unobscured  image  of  that  sweet  girl  was  almost  the  same 
as  her  living  self;  and  often,  often  did  Lucy  commune 
with  it  sitting  in  her  parlor,  or  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  plane,  or  by  some  little  clear  spring  among  the  hills, 
whither  she  had  gone  to  bring  home  the  watercresses,  or 
to  see  what  was  now  the  number  of  the  spring  lambs. 
Little  as  Lucy  had  seen  or  heard,  that  little  was  all  pure 
and  good,  or  it  was  the  purifying  grief  that  follows  re- 
pentent  guilt ;  so  that,  although  a  mere  child,  she  was  in 
her  innocence  wiser  than  she  knew,  and  had  learned  to 
look,  even  with  a  thoughtful  eye,  both  on  human  joy  and 
human  affliction. 

Never,  even  in  her  happiest  pastimes,  was  Lucy  dis- 
inclined to  go  with  her  father  or  mother  to  the  hut  of 
Elspeth  Riddel  the  widow,  who  had  been  a  widow,  and 
had  lost  all   her  twelve  children,  upwards  of  thirty  years 


TIIK     FORESTERS.  69 

ago.  Close  to  ilje  side  of  that  frail  image,  now  uj^vvarda 
of  ninety  years  old,  would  Lucy  stand,  with  upward  eyes 
swimming  in  reverent  pity,  while  the  long  locks,  white 
as  the  driven  snows,  hung  over  the  golden  glow  of  the 
maiden's  tresses,  that  changed  their  lustre  at  every  motion 
of  her  head.  Lucy,  at  her  bidding,  would  read  the  Bible 
in  that  lonely  hut;  and  Elsjjcth  said,  that,  although  some- 
what deaf  now,  slie  never  lost  a  word  of  that  low,  sweet, 
distinct  voice.  Garden  flowers,  too,  she  would  often  take 
to  that  hut;  and  Elspeth,  dim  as  her  eyes  were,  knew 
them  all  by  name,  in  a  moment;  for,  long  before  even 
Lucy's  father  was  born,  had  she  often  gathered  such 
flowers  as  these  for  the  bosoms  of  pretty  maidens,  like 
Lucy  herself,  who  had  all,  long  since,  gone  down  in  old 
age  to  the  grave.  "  Ay,  ay,  Mrs.  Forester,  I  have  seen 
generation  after  generation,  and  bonny  faces  are  for  ever 
passing  away  on  the  earth,  but  a  bonnier  face  than  that 
o'  your  ain  Lucy  saw  I  never  in  a'  my  lang  days,  and 
that  1  say  before  hersel,  for  the  lassie  that  will  come  and 
speak  comfort  to  an  auld  forgotten  ruin  o'  a  human  crea- 
ture like  me,  may  be  felt,  without  scaith,  o'  her  beauty, 
perfect  as  it  is,  like  the  beauty  o'  the  rose  of  Sharon." 

Often,  too,  did  Lucy  visit  Mooredge  —  a  house  only 
less  solitary  than  that  of  Elspeth  Riddel,  whose  hut, 
indeed,  had  no  name,  a  mere  turf  shQiling,  that  had  been 
built  in  a  single  day.  In  the  comfortable  cottage  of 
Mooredge  lived  Allan  Laidlawand  his  wife,  now  a  cheer- 
ful couple,  although  the  very  summer  when  the  Foresters 
came  into  the  parish,  their  three  sons  had  been  drowned 
in  attempting  to  cross  a,  ford  of  the  Tweed,  when  the 
river  was  in  flood.  To  hear  these  old  people  laughing 
and  talking,  one  would  have  thought  that  they  had  never 
been  acquainted  Vi'ith  grief;  but  Lucy  had  often  seen 
them  when  no  smiles  were  in  the  house,  and  when  both 
Mr.  Kennedy  and  her  father,  who  had  come  there  to  pray 
with  them,  that  from  such  perfect  resignation  as  theirs, 
they  would  carry  comfort  to  their  own  homes,  but  that 
they  could  add  nothing  to  such  a  frame  of  spirit.  "It 
is  not  time  that  cures  our  sorrows,  Mr.  Kennedy,"  would 
the  old   woman  say ;  "  for  time  would   weary,  and  waste 


70  THE    FORESTERS. 

out,  and  distract  the  souls  of  us  mortal  creatures.  No, 
no,  it  is  not  time,  Mr.  Forester  ;  for  as  plainly,  as  clearly, 
as  distinctly  do  T  see  now  the  faces  of  my  three  drowned 
boys,  as  I  saw  them  on  that  day  when  they  were  dragged 
out  of  the  cruel  waters  ;  and  if  me  and  Allan  had  no  other 
comfort,  long  ere  this  hour  would  we  baith  hae  gaen 
down  in  sorrow  to  our  graves." 

Thus  passed  the  days  of  Michael  Forester  and  his 
family.  Ten  years  it  was  since  they  had  left  Dovenest ; 
and,  although  they  had  their  share  of  those  ordinary 
anxieties  and  sorrows  that  will  pass  over  the  surface  of 
the  calmest  life,  yet,  during  all  these  ten  years,  they  had 
known  only  one  miserable  night  and  day,  when  they 
feared  Lucy  had  been  lost  or  dead.  And  what  gratitude 
could  ever  repay  such  happiness  ?  What  if  severest  trials 
awaited  them,  had  they  not  been  the  favorites  of  heaven, 
and  had  they  not  reason  humbly  to  trust  that,  in  their 
lives,  their  Maker  was  well  pleased? 


CHAPTER   XI. 

It  was  the  cheerful  season  of  bark  pealing,  and  Michael 
Forester  had  been,  for  several  weeks,  employed  in  felling 
a  pretty  extensive  wood,  about  five  miles  from  Heriot 
Water,  on  the  edge  of  the  Hirst —  a  large  and  old  estate 
belonging  to  a  branch  of  the  Cranstouns.  Michael  had 
many  persons,  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages,  working  under 
him  ;  and  not  contented  with  being  merely  an  overlooker, 
he  had  the  axe  frequently  in  his  own  powerful  hand,  and 
thus  added  to  his  other  gains  the  wages  of  a  laborer,  al- 
ways high  in  that  severe  and  dexterous  employment. 
Sometimes  he  slept  all  night  in  a  sheiling  in  the  wood; 
and,  on  these  occasions,  Lucy  would  come  tripping  over 
the  hills,  and  try  to  surprise  her  father  by  laughing  in  at 
the  door,  even  before  he  had  left  his  heather  bed  in  the 


THE    FOKESTERS.  71 

first  glow  of  sunlight.  She  carried  to  him,  in  her  basket, 
provisions  for  the  day  ;  remained  near  him  till  twilight 
among  the  fallen  trees  ;  and,  more  than  once,  indeed,  she 
had  stayed  with  him  all  night  in  the  sheiling. 

It  happened  that  Michael  Forester  had  been  detained 
in  the  wood  for  two  successive  nights,  and,  therefore, 
the  whole  family,  Agnes,  Aunt  Isobel,  Lucy,  and  their 
three  days'  visiter,  Mary  Morrison,  determined  to  pay  him 
a  visit  at  his  work,  and  bring  him  home  with  them  in  the 
evening  to  Bracken  Braes.  They  took  with  them  what 
would  be  considered  quite  a  feast  in  the  forest ;  and  Aunt 
Isobel  selected  a  bottle  of  the  choicest  cowslip  wine,  of 
that  celebrated  vintage,  which  had  proved  victorious  over 
all  competition  at  an  annual  meeting  of  an  Edinburgh 
Horticultural  Society.  Lucy  said  she  had  selected  a 
dining  room,  on  a  spot  of  ground,  smooth  as  velvet,  near 
a  spring,  over  which  the  huge  arm  of  a  fallen  oak  hung 
like  a  canopy  that,  now  and  then,  fluttering  in  the  breeze, 
and  tempered  to  a  pleasant  coolness  the  strongest  heat 
of  the  sun.  "  There  will  you  three  sit —  father,  mother, 
and  Aunt  Isobel —  while  Mary  and  I  will  wait  at  table  ; 
and,  if  you  please,  sing  you  a  song  when  you  are  drink- 
ing your  wine."  Lucy  and  Mary  Morrison  carried  be- 
tween them  the  basket  of  provisions  covered  with  its 
white  cloth ;  and  thus  they  stepped  cheerfully  along  over 
hill  and  hollow,  often  hurrying  far  before,  and  often 
loitering  far  behind  Agnes  and  Aunt  Isobel,  who  took 
their  own  good  time,  not  caring  if  they  should  not  reach 
the  wood  till  one  o'clock,  the  hour  at  which  their  table 
was  to  be  spread  in  that  wilderness. 

The  little  party,  under  the  guidance  of  Lucy,  pene- 
trated, not  without  some  difiiculties  in  their  way,  into  the 
heart  of  the  wood,  which  covered  nearly  thirty  acres. 
"  What  a  change  since  yesterday  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy  ; 
"  I  saw  naething  o'  that  brae  and  that  wee  bit  bonnie 
glen  yestreen.  The  auld  oaks,  as  they  fa',  let  many  a 
secret  place  come  into  the  open  light.  Waes  me  for  a' 
the  birds  and  their  nests  —  there's  a  poor  shilfa  mourning 
for  her  young."  Michael  beheld  them  all  approaching 
with  a  pleased  surprise,  and  left  his  axe  in  a   wide  gap 


72  THE    FORESTEBS. 

across  the  stern  of  a  noble  oak  that  reached  nearly  to  its 
heart's  core,  and  would  soon  prostrate  the  giant  with  the 
earth.  It  was,  indeed,  now  the  hour  of  rest  and  refresh- 
ment, and  all  the  clashing  and  crushing  sounds  ceased  in 
the  forest,  "This  way,  father  —  this  way,  father,"  cried 
the  joyful  Lucy  ;  "  all  of  you  follow  Mary  Morrison  and 
me,  for  we  are  going  to  lay  the  table  cloth  in  the  Q,ueen 
Fairies  own  dining-room  ;  nda  long  before  the  moonlight 
we  will  leave  it,  without  disturbing  any  of  the  furniture, 
to  herself  and  her  silent  people." 

"  Remember,  lassie,  that  we  are  not  all  so  young  as 
yourself  Here  am  I,  an  auld  woman  of  threescore  and 
seven  —  for  ten  has  a  fearful  sound  —  and  I  have  walked 
five  good  miles  without  crutch  or  staff.  Come  hither, 
Lucy,  like  a  bit  roe  as  you  are,  and  give  me  your  arm 
to  lean  on  while  I  take  my  breath  on  this  branch.  Pre- 
serve us,  what  a  thickness  o'  moss,  and  what  soft,  gray, 
blue,  red,  yellow  —  ay,  all  the  seven  colors,  o'  the  rain- 
bow, a'  glowing  with  gold  and  silver  on  the  bark  of  a 
fidlen  tree.  Yet  the  bark  peelers  will  strip  it  aff  and 
fling  it  aside  without  ever  looking  at  it.  Dear  me!  that 
so  many  tall  trees  o'  the  forest  should   be  brought  low  to 

tan  leather!     And  yet  —  1    forgot   ships   maun   be 

built  —  to  say  nothing  o'  houses.  Agnes,  my  dear  bairn, 
is  not  this  wood,  in  its  ain  way,  a  very  paradise?" 

That  word,  which  Aunt  Isobel  pronounced  with  a  sort 
of  half  self-reproving  smile,  was  not  in  this  case  alto- 
gether misapplied.  For  labor,  the  lot  of  man,  seemed 
here,  even  in  its  severity,  to  partake  of  the  character  of  a 
pastime.  Here,  from  one  party,  the  ringing  axes,  as  they 
kept  at  regular  intervals  biting  the  knotted  oaks,  brought 
the  short  shrill  echoes  out  of  the  gray  cliffs  that,  ever 
and  anon,  shewed  some  new  shaped  crag,  formerly  hidden 
by  the  umbrage.  There  a  group  of  women,  girls,  and 
boys,  and  among  them  some  mere  infants  were  beating 
the  short  limber  branches,  while  a  nursing  mother,  a 
little  apart,  wrapped  in  her  red  gypsy  cloak,  hushed  her 
baby,  and  then  returned  cheerfully  to  her  work.  In  one 
place,  a  number  of  strong  men  were  hauling  trunks  or 
huge  arms  of  trees  out  of  the  way,  v/ith  merry  cries,  like 


THE    FORESTERS,  78 

those  of  sailors  at  the  weighing  of  anchor.  In  another 
place,  lads  were  heaping  up  the  poles  together  in  pyra- 
mids, or  binding  the  low  cords  of  fire  or  spoke  wood. 
"  A  rae,  a  rae,"  exclaimed  many  young  voices  ;  and  away 
bounded  the  beautiful  animal,  with  twenty  shepherds' 
dogs  barking  in  vain  behind  its  flight.  The  squirrels, 
startled  at  the  noise  of  the  chace,  ran  higher  up  the 
branches  of  the  standard  oaks  ;  and  the  large  white  owl, 
issuing  from  his  crevice  in  the  yew  tree,  kept  floating 
about  in  the  darkness  of  the  daylight,  and  then  settled 
on  a  branch  with  his  clerical  countenance,  to  the  infinite 
amusement  of  all  the  shouting  imps  in  the  wood. 

"  Come  along  —  come  along,"  said  the  impatient  Lucy  ; 
"  you  see  t1iey  have  all  left  their  work.  Put  your  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  Aunt  Isobel  ;  I  see  Mary  Morrison  is 
helping  my  mother  down  the  brae."  A  dozen  different 
little  dinner  parties  were  now  forming  themselves  in 
nooks  and  corners;  while  the  linnets  and  the  chaffinches, 
in  the  underwood,  or  on  the  spared  trees,  whose  nests 
had  escaped  the  general  devastation,  began  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  silence,  and  were  chirping  and  carolling 
in  the  shaded  sunshine.  The  cushat,  too,  moaned  from 
his  pine ;  and  two  or  three  herons  came  flapping  their 
slow  and  silent  wings  from  some  distant  lake  or  stream 
to  the  elm  grove  that,  for  the  sake  of  those  noble  birds, 
was  suffered  to  stand  with  all  its  hereditary  nests. 

Lucy,  with  finest  eye  and  ear,  had  selected  the  place 
for  their  forest  feast.  It  was  a  close  scene,  yet  in  that 
covert  was  felt  the  whole  spirit  of  the  wood.  Within 
the  circle  of  an  old  charcoal  burning  place,  the  ingenious 
creature  had  so  placed  several  wreathed  limbs  of  trees, 
intermingled  with  roots  and  tendrils,  that  they  formed 
one  continued  couch,  with  resting-places  for  back  and 
arm,  and  enclosed  a  slab  sawn  off"  an  antique  ash,  which, 
supported  by  four  pillars  of  unpeeled  birch,  formed  a 
table  at  once  elegant  and  commodious.  That  table  was 
soon  set  out  by  Lucy  and  Mary  Morrison  ;  and,  as  soon 
as  the  laughing  glee  had  subsided,  Michael  blest  the 
table,  and,  after  a  moment's  silence,  the  feast  began. 
7 


74  THE    FOBESTEKS. 

"  Why,  Mary,  had  not  ycu  and  I  green  clothes,  and 
then  we  would  have  been  very  fairies?  But  Aunt  Isobel 
is  looking  for  a  cup  of  nectar."  And  off  flew  the  laugh- 
ing Lucy,  with  her  golden  tresses,  dancing  in  her  delight, 
and  from  that  spring  brought  water  clearer  and  brighter 
than  any  diamonds  ;  while  meek  Mary  Morrison  moved 
round  the  circle  with  gentler  steps,  and  with  suitable 
demeanor,  almost  as  if  she  had  been  indeed  a  servant. 

Agnes,  who  had  not  been  out  of  the  lone  pastoral 
country  of  Heriot  Water  for  several  years,  felt  her  tran- 
quil heart  kindled  by  the  beautiful  forest  scenery ;  and, 
as  she  looked  over  the  multitude  of  fallen  trees  through 
the  stems  of  the  standing  wood,  she  remembered  Dove- 
nest,  Hawthornden,  Dryden,  Lasswade,  and  Roslin.  "  O 
Michael !  you  surely  will  not  fell  yonder  tree ;  look  at  it, 
and  say  if  it  be  not  the  identical  image  of  the  oak  that 
stands  beside  the  ford  across  the  Eske,  at  the  very  bor- 
ders of  Dovenest."  —  "Why,  my  Agnes,  Dovenest,  our 
house  and  our  gardens,  and  our  trees,  all  are  gone,  or  if 
not  gone  by  this  time,  so  much  changed,  that  even  you 
would  not  know  the  place.  They  are  building  there  a 
paper  mill ;  the  mill  lead  runs  where  were  our  gravel 
walks;  and  the  wheel  goes  dashing  round  where  our  fa- 
ther died  and  our  Lucy  was  born."  —  "  And  why  not  1 " 
said  Aunt  Isobel,  with  a  cheerful  voice  :  "  what  were  the 
walls  but  stone  and  lime  ;  and  the  trees  and  shrubs,  and 
even  the  flowers,  what  but  dead  matter,  without  thought 
and  feeling  ?  There  is,  at  least,  no  change  in  our  hearts, 
my  son,  but  what,  I  hope,  is  a  change  for  the  better. 
For  my  own  part,  never  was  I  so  happy  ;  I  never  saw 
you  both  so  happy  either  at  Dovenest  or  Sprinkeld  as  you 
are  this  blessed  hour.  There  was  no  Lucy  then.  '  Come 
hither  my  pearl.'  "  And  while  old  Aunt  Isobel  kissed 
Lucy's  forehead,  they  were  all  silent  in  the  hush  of  happi- 
ness. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  cried  Lucy,  "  yonder  is  auld  blind  Sandy 
Paisley  with  his  fiddle.  Only  look,  father,  how  his  bon- 
ny wee  dog,  Princy,  leads  him  through  among  the  briars 
and  branches;  and  how,  with  his  staff  feeling  round  in 
all  directions,  the  auld  man,  without  a  single  stumble,  is 


THE    FORESTERS.  75 

making  his  way  along  the  wood!  See  now;  he  kens 
folk  are  near  at  hand,  for  Princy  is  beginning  to  cock  up 
his  ears  and  bark;  so  Sandy  has  taken  his  seat  on  a 
stump,  and  now  for  his  'fiddle!  Ay,  you'll  hear  him 
singing  too  —  hush  —  it  is  puir  Tannahill's  sang,  wi' 
Mr.  Smith's  music  —  'Jessie  the  Flower  o'  Dumblane.' " 

As  soon  as  Sandy  Paisley's  voice  and  violin  were 
heard,  there  was  an  end  to  all  the  dinner  parties  in  the 
wood,  and  the  old  blind  musician^was  quickly  surrounded 
by  a  crowded  audience.  Two  or  three  young  girls  join- 
ed in  the  song;  and  Sandy  Paisley  then  instantly  changed 
his  voice  into  a  firm,  deep,  low,  tremulous  second,  that 
charmed  the  most  ignorant  and  uninitiated  in  the  rayste- 
ries  of  music.  "A  reel,  a  reel,"  was  now  the  general 
cry;  and  half  a  dozen  couple  beat  the  sod  to  Tulloch- 
goram,  while  Sandy  yelled  amain  at  every  turn,  and 
moved  his  bow  hand  till  the  fingers  were  almost  in- 
visible. 

"Are  these  draps  o'  rain,"  quoth  the  blind  man, 
"  plashing  on  the  grun'  like  lead  ?  And  callants  and 
cutties,  dinna  ye  find  it  close,  and  sultry,  and  breathless? 
Tell  me,  are  there  no  ony  black  clouds  in  the  lift  ? 
Hear  till't  —  that  growl  comes  frae  the  west.  The  thun- 
der will  be  rattling  like  artillery  owre  our  heads  by  the 
time  I  hae  played  three  times  baith  parts  o'  '  The  Flow- 
ers o'  the  Forest."  Sighing  sounds  went  wavering  all 
over  the  wood  ;  the  western  horizon,  far  and  wide,  was 
blackened  ;  and  all  the  work  people  flew  to  seek  shelter 
from  the  thunder  storm. 

Agnes  had  always  been  overcome  by  a  thundery  atmo- 
sphere, and  had  indeed,  for  an  hour  past,  felt  great  op- 
pression;  but  in  such  a  happy  scene,  she  concealed  her 
sickness,  and  had  said  nothing.  Michael,  after  ordering 
the  work  people  to  keep  away  from  the  standing  trees, 
carried  Agnes,  almost  fainting,  in  his  arms,  and  laid  her 
on  the  heather  bed  in  the  shelling  where  he  had  slept  for 
the  last  two  nights.  Aunt  Isobel  sat  down  beside  her; 
and  Michael,  taking  Lucy  and  Mary  under  his  protec- 
tion,  lay  down    with  them  under  some   leafy  branches. 


76  THE    FOKESTEKS. 

The  thunder  cloud  was  now  right  over  their  heads,  and 
seemed  to  explode  like  a  cannon. 

Every  person  in  the  wood,  for  the  space  of  a  moment, 
was  stunned  ;  and  there  was  all  around,  in  the  hotness 
of  the  unbreathing  air,  a  strong  smell  of  sulphur.  JVlany 
started  to  their  feet,  happy  to  feel,  by  the  use  of  their 
limbs,  that  they  were  unstricken,  while  a  greater  number 
lay  concealed  in  fear  among  the  bushes,  from  which,  now 
and  then,  was  lifted  up  the  frighted  face  of  some  cower- 
ing urchin.  "Where  is  Mr.  Forester?"  cried  twenty 
voices ;  and  Lucy,  who  had  been  lying  almost  in  his 
arms,  leaped  to  her  feet,  and  stood  over  her  father,  who 
was  yet  motionless,  and  seemingly  insensible. 

While  the  thunder  went  away,  growling  over  the  wood 
and  the  moor  beyond,  into  the  eastern  mountains,  many 
hands  were  assisting  Michael  Forester.  Mary  Morrison 
was  lying  by  his  side;  but,  in  a  few  minutes,  she  awoke, 
as  if  from  a  dream,  and  looked  about  her  unharmed. 
There  were  no  outcries  —  no  clamorous  voices —  all  was 
nearly  silent.  Michael  seemed  to  recover  hia  recollec- 
tion ;  and  the  first  words  he  was  heard  to  say  were  — 
"  Lucy  —  Lucy,  how  is  your  mother  I  "  Lucy  heard  the 
words  with  many  sobs;  but  her  sobs  were  changed  into 
shrieks,  for  she  looked  wildly  into  her  father's  face,  and 
saw  that  he  was  blind.  The  fire  of  heaven  had  scorched 
out  his  eyes,  and  Michael  Forester  was  never  more  to 
see  either  the  heavens  or  the  earth. 

Michael  felt  that  there  had  been  dealt  to  him  a  sud- 
den and  severe  dispensation.  But  his  soul  knew  not,  as 
yet,  what  might  be  the  extent  of  its  great  loss,  for  he 
knew  not  whether  Agnes  and  Lucy  were  alive  or  dead. 
Isobel  had  left  Agnes  stunned  into  a  swoon  by  the  noise 
of  the  bolt;  but,  by  this  time,  she  had  somewhat  recov- 
ered, and  came  out  into  the  open  air.  Michael  now 
heard  both  her  voice  and  Lucy's,  and  though  it  was  the 
voice  of  weeping  and  lamentation,  yet  was  he  now  con- 
tent, "Puirman — puir  man,"  said  blind  Sandy  Pais- 
ley ;  "  is  it,  indeed,  a  God's  truth,  that  Mr.  Forester  has 
been  blinded  by  the  lightning?  Puir  man,  I  pi;y  him." 
and  he  clasped   his  hands  together  in  strong  compassion, 


THE    FORESTERS.  77 

the  very  hands  that  held  the  string  by  which  his  dog  led 
him  from  house  to  house. 

In  a  little  while,  one  of  the  boys  came  from  another 
part  of  the  wood,  and  said  —  "  Sarah  Fleming  is  killed." 
"  Puir  orphan,"  said  a  voice  —  "Sarah  hadna  much  in 
this  world  to  wish  living  for  —  but  she  was  a  hard-work- 
ing harmless  thing,  and  quarrelled  wi'  naebody."  Two 
of  the  woodcutters  brought  the  body  to  the  spot,  where 
all  the  others  were  now  assembled,  and  laid  it  on  the 
ground.  There  was  no  disfigurement  of  face  or  figure, 
but  the  orphan  girl  was  manifestly  dead.  She  had  nei- 
ther brother  nor  sister,  nor  any  relation  working  in  the 
wood.  Indeed,  she  had  been  an  only  child  of  parents 
who  died  before  she  knew  their  faces.  And  although, 
for  a  week  or  two,  every  one  pitied  Sarah  Fleming,  her 
death  made  small  void  in  that  little  circle,  and,  on  the 
second  Sabbath,  only  a  very  few  missed  her  face  in  the 
kirk. 

The  body  of  the  orphan  now  lay  unheeded,  not  from  in- 
difference to  her  fate,  but  from  a  sense  of  the  unavailing- 
ness  of  pity  ;  while  every  one  was  sorely  disturbed  about 
Michael  Forester,  and  many  tried  to  persuade  themselves 
that  there  still  might  be  hope,  and  that  his  eyesight  might 
be  restored.  But  Isobel  in  her  aged  composure,  Agnes 
in  her  exceeding  love,  and  Lucy  in  the  distraction  of 
childish  tenderness,  all  alike  knew  that  hope  there  was 
none,  and  beseeched  the  workmen  to  carry  Michael  to 
Bracken  Braes. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

From  the  first  moment  there  had  been  no  hope  for 
Michael  Forester.  This  he  had  himself  known  — Agnes, 
Lucy,  and  Isobel,  and  all  who  had  seen  the  nature  of  the 
affliction.     It  was  a  sudden  and  total   change  from  light 

7* 


78  THE    FORESTERS. 

to  darkness — from  free  bounding  inotion  over  all  the 
varieties  of  the  uneven  earth,  to  anxious  and  timid  steps 
along  the  floor  of  a  sick  room,  or  at  hist  to  be  guided  by 
some  livincT  hand  within  a  safe  and  narrow  circle  of  unen- 
cumbered ground,  set  apart  for  the  exercise  of  the  blind. 
Such  visitations  come  alike  upon  huuiility  and  pride, 
sweeping  the  low  and  the  high  places,  so  that  the  cottar 
and  the  king  are  equally  insecure  as  the  worm  that  is 
trodden  upon  among  the  grass.  Oh !  what  thoughts 
weighed  on  Michael's  mind  as  he  felt  himself  carried  in 
pain  and  darkness  up  and  down  the  hills  towards  Brack- 
en Braes!  Thoughts  of  dependence  and  uselessness, 
perhaps  of  a  life  to  be  sustained  on  charity  !  what  a 
change  since  the  morning  he  had  left  them,  as  he  heard 
the  door  of  his  house  opened,  and  knew  that  he  was  to 
see  that  roof  and  that  plane  tree  no  more!  Utterly  ex- 
tinguished were  those  clear  bright  bold  eyes  that  had 
never  been  afraid  to  look  into  any  man's  face  —  no  more 
to  gaze  over  the  meadows  and  pastoral  braes  of  his  farm 
—  no  more  to  be  turned  in  the  delight  of  pious  knowl- 
edge towards  the  glorious  luminaries  of  heaven  —  to  see 
sweet  little  fair-haired  Lucy  and  her  laughing  eyes  no 
more — nor  her  innocent  hands  I'olded  in  prayer  before 
her  Maker.  Unseen  by  him  was  henceforth  to  be  the 
meek  beauty  of  his  Agnes.  But  her  soft  low  voice,  that 
was  still  to  be  enjoyed  far  more  than  ever,  and  that  blessed 
head  was  yet  to  lie  nightly  within  his  bosom.  The  dire 
distress  met  a  sort  of  dim  and  awful  contentment  in  the 
depth  of  his  spirit  as  it  descended  there  ;  and  on  the 
morning  of  the  second  Sabbath,  as  he  heard  and  knew 
the  sound  of  familiar  feet  and  voices,  somewhat  as  it 
seemed  more  cheerful  and  unconstrained,  Michael  For- 
ester knew  not  whether  he  might  not  almost  be  called 
happy. 

"  I  never  heard  the  kirk  bell  so  distinctly  before. 
What  a  calm  and  clear  aired  day  must  it  be,  Agnes  ! 
Has  Lucy  gone  with  Aunt  Isobel  to  the  kirk  ?  "  Lucy 
had  that  moment  come  into  the  room,  and  her  father 
knew  her  lightest  footstep  —  for,  even  already,  in  one 
little  week,  had  his  thoughts  and  feelings  begun  to  trust 


THE    FOKESTERS.  79 

more  than  before  to  the  intimations  of  the  ear.  He  took 
his  child's  hand  into  his,  and  felt  that  her  small  fingers 
were  enclosing  her  Bible.  "  Be  happy,  ray  Lucy,  in  the 
house  of  God,  for  I  am  happy."  Lucy's  eyes  were  all 
filled  with  tears;  but  Aunt  Isobel  called  to  her,  with  a 
kind  impatience,  from  the  outer  door,  that  the  first  bell 
had  ceased  ;  so  the  child  gave  her  father  a  farewell  kiss,  and 
by  the  time  they  had  crossed  the  wooden  bridge,  the  sun 
was  shining  so  joyfully,  the  stream  murmuring  along  with 
such  a  cheerful  tune,  and  the  lark  so  happy  in  heaven, 
that  Lucy's  cheeks  were  dry,  and  the  bright  calm  of 
childhood  established  in  her  bosom,  permanent  as  the 
blue  region  of  air  lying  without  a  cloud  from  the  morn- 
ing till  the  evening  of  some  long  summer  day. 

The  house  was  filled  with  the  stillness  of  Sabbath,  and 
the  other  few  inmates  had  left  Agnes  sitting  by  her  blind 
husband.  "  O  Michael !  I  am  a  poor  weak  being,  and  I 
fear  that  I  have  not  been,  in  too  many  things,  a  good 
poor  man's  wife.  When  I  look  back  on  our  eleven  mar- 
ried years,  I  see  myself  cherished,  and  cared  for  at  all 
times  like  the  best  lady  in  the-  land.  For  me  and  Lucy 
has  my  husband  toiled  early  and  late,  and  in  all  weathers, 
while  I  was  idle  by  the  fireside.  If  Agnes  Hay  was  in 
comfort,  my  Michael  thought  not  of  himself:  and,  O 
may  my  Maker  now  graciously  be  pleased  to  enable  me 
to  do  my  duties  —  different  as  they  must  henceforth  be 
—  else  better  that  I  had  never  been  born.  O  that  this 
dispensation  had  fallen  upon  me  !  for  I  am  but  little  worth 
in  the  house,  and  would  have  been  well  contented  to  be 
still  and  humble  in  the  loss  of  sight,  while  you  were  busy 
as  before  at  all  your  works.  O  my  husband  !  if  ever  f 
have  been  self-willed,  or  forgetful,  I  will  weep  in  remorse 
of  my  sins;  for  you  taught  me  everything  I  know,  and 
without  your  communications  of  what  I  owed  to  God  and 
my  fellow-creatures,  more  worthless  should  I  have  been 
than  even  what  I  feel  myself  to  be,  with  such  a  burden  of 
love  and  duty  now  laid  upon  my  heart." 

The  blind  man  would  not  interrupt  that  piteous  voice, 
for  it  reconciled  him  to  his  fate.  He  sat  up  in  his  bed, 
and  taking  Agnes'  hand  into  his  —  "  This  ring,"  he  said, 


80  THE    FORESTERS. 

with  a  smile,  "I  pat  on  thy  hand  with  joy,  when  thou 
wert  the  fairest  of  the  fair  —  nor  have  years  yet  impaired 
thy  beauty.  Blind  I  am,  and  must  for  ever  be  ;  but  thy 
face  will  yet  be  visible,  nor  will  thy  smiles  ever  be  as 
nothing  in  my  memory.  Never  once,  Agnes  —  never 
once  —  hear  me,  O  Heavens !  from  whom  came  the 
scorching  lightning  —  hast  thou  given  me  one  moment's 
unhappiness!  and  if  thou  repinest  not  —  I  shall  be  as 
happy  —  it  may  be  happier  than  ever.  But  I  know  you 
will  not  repine ;  for  Agnes  Hay,  child,  maiden,  and 
mother,  waking  and  asleep,  by  her  own  hearth,  in  the 
open  air,  and  in  the  house  of  God,  hath  ever  been  a 
Christian." 

Now  for  a  while  silent,  and  now  speaking  to  each 
other  a  few  affectionate  words,  three  hours  had  passed 
away,  and  the  congregation  had  left  the  kirk.  "  Agnes, 
think  if  my  eyes  had  been  yet  unextinguished,  and  our 
Lucy  dead,  what  then  would  have  been  the  darkness  and 
the  silence  of  Bracken  Braes?  Both  of  us  had  then,  in- 
deed, been  worse  than  blind  ;  for  what  then  to  us  had  been 
the  unavailing  light?  Methinks  the  dear  lassie  will  soon 
be  returning  from  Divine  service,  or  perhaps  they  have 
taken  her  and  Aunt  Isobel  to  the  manse." 

Lucy  had  come  into  the  room  with  feet  silent  as  the 
shadows,  and  had  heard  her  father's  words.  Well  she 
knew  how  dear  she  was  to  her  father  ;  but,  this  expression 
of  it,  so  overheard,  carried  her  into  heaven.  She  stood 
still  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  —  a  guardian  angel,  unseen  by 
him  for  whom  she  wept. 

"Aornes,  why  are  you  sobbing?"  said  Michael ;  but  his 
Lucy  came  up  to  his  pillow,  and  at  once  melted  and  over- 
awed, knelt  down,  and  breathed  a  prayer,  of  which  the 
few  simple  and  broken  words  were,  assuredly,  not  un- 
heard in  heaven. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  Mr.  and  Miss  Kennedy  came 
from  the  manse  to  Bracken  Braes.  Aunt  Isobel  had  had 
warning  of  the  visit,  and  had  the  house  in  the  same 
cheerful  order  as  if  they  had  been   invited  to    a  festival. 

"  Come  Lucy,  snod  your  hair  a  little,  and  dinna  look  as 
you  had  been  crying."      And,   at  that  kind  command. 


THE    FORESTERS.  81 

Lucy  siiiilod  from  her  very  heart.  The  tea  table  was  got 
ready  in  JMichacl's  room  ;  and  the  presence  of  Mr.  and 
Miss  Kennedy  imposed  a  pleasant  restraint  on  any  too 
mournful  feelings  that  might  otherwise  have  arisen.  The 
minister  knew  the  character  of  his  elder,  and  his  words 
of  comfort  were  but  few;  but  they  were  chosen  by  a  fine 
and  pious  mind  ;  and  the  grace  before  and  after  that  meal 
touclied  chords  that  long  continued  to  sound  in  the  re- 
signed silence  of  the  blind  man's  spirit. 

Aunt  Isobel,  who  had  kept  moving  to  and  fro,  now  ush- 
ered in  Sandy  Paisley. 

"  I  hope  you  'II  no  be  offended,  Mr.  Forester,  wi'  my 
coming  to  see  how  you  are  after  your  calamity.  A  blin' 
man  like  me  can  feel  mair  than  others  in  sic  a  trial ;  but 
he  can,  maybe,  likewise  gi'e  mair  comfort. 

Auld  Sandy  Paisley  was  kindly  welcomed,  and  shook 
hands  with  Michael  in  his  bed.  He  was  privileged  to 
speak,  lowly  as  he  was  in  character  and  condition  —  for 
he  was  upwards  of  seventy,  and  had  been  in  darkness  for 
forty  years. 

"  Wud  ye  believe  me,  Mr.  Forester,  when  I  say  it,  that 
it's  just  like  a  dream  to  me,  the  time  when  I  saw  the  hea- 
ven and  the  earth,  the  stars  and  the  flowers,  human  crea- 
tures and  the  animals  o'  the  brute  creation  ?  My  faith,  'gin 
I  were  to  get  the  use  o'  my  e'en  now,  how  I  wad  glower  at 
a'  the  outward  works  of  God  !  Guid  troth,  I'se  warrant  I 
couldna  comprehend  them  half  as  weel  as  I  do  now.  It 
wad  be  a  sair  confusion." 

There  was  a  gladsome  tinkle  in  the  old  contented  crea- 
ture's voice  that  made  these  few  words  a  homily  to  all 
their  hearts,  and  Lucy  put  the  tea  cup  into  his  hand  with 
more  than  usual  care  and  gentleness. 

"  r  recollec'  thnt  I  was  gaen  gleg  frae  the  first  week  o' 
my  blindness.  Before  that,  I  never  could  walk  twenty 
yards  wi'  my  e'en  shut,  without  being  terrified  o'  running 
owre  a  precipice,  or  a  coach  and  six,  although  I  was  in 
a  hay  field.  But  nae  sooner  was  I  blin',  than  away  I 
marched  right  leg  foremost,  without  fear  o'  stumbling  owre 
a  stane  or  a  straw.  I  felt  a  little  nervish  and  queer  some- 
times before  I  got  a  doggie  and  string ;   and  ye  wad  hae 


82  THE    FORESTERS. 

leuch  to  split  your  sides  to  hae  seen  me  louping  as  if  I  had 
been  demented,  high  up  in  the  air,  and  ui'  a  laag  spang, 
at  a  bit  runner  o'  water,  aiblins  the  preadth  o'  my  twa 
hands.  I  hadna  learned  then,  ye  understand,  to  calculate 
soun's  ;  and  when  1  knoited  the  ba'  o'  my  foot  against  a 
stane,  I  wud  caper  as  if  I  had  run  foul  o'  a  haill  cart  load 
o'  road  metal.  But  these  are  auld  times:  noo  I  gang 
dannering  alang  as  stedy  as  a  rock,  or  rather  like  a  ship 
under  sail  in  a  fine  breeze  on  the  ocean. 

The  loquacity  of  some  people  —  one  can  scarcely  tell 
why  —  although  endless  is  not  tiresome  —  and  such  now 
was  the  loquacity  of  this  old  blind  mendicant.  "We're 
gaun  to  hae  a  fine  summer  o't,  I'm  thinking.  I  ken  by 
the  sangs  o'  the  birds  in  April  what  is  to  be  the  nature  o' 
July.  O  but  I  like  the  lang  days  that  gang  snoving  so 
cannily  down  the  skies,  for  then  I  carena  whar  I  sleep. 
I  just  drap  down  behint  a  stane  or  a  dyke,  wi'  the  kine 
lying  round  about  me,  and  the  wee  bit  moorland  birds 
twittering,  like  perfect  nightingales  as  they  are,  wi'  sma' 
interruption  through  the  star  hours.  Deevil  the  fear  o' 
ony  rheumatics,  for  I  seldom  want  a  drap  o'  the  cretur 
in  a  bit  leather  bottle  I  keep  in  ane  o'  my  pouches.     Gude 

safe  us !  " "Nay,  Sandy,  my  honest  friend,  a  little 

more  reverent  in  your  language." — "  Pardon,  pardon, 
Mr.  Kennedy,  and  all  the  rest.  I'm  but  a  puir,  senseless 
sinner  "  —  letting  his  voice  drop  at  the  same  time  — 
"  and  what  would  become  o'  me,  stane  blin,'  and  no  sae 
far  aff  four  score,  'gin  my  Maker  should  forget  me  wan- 
dering by  mysel  along  the  highroads,  or  among  the  hags 
o'  peat  mosses  on  the  lonesome  moors." 

Michael  Forester  felt  his  whole  nature  strengthened 
by  Sandy's  cheerful  resignation.  Shall  I  repine,  he 
thought,  or  question  the  mercy  of  God's  judgments,  when 
I  hear  this  childless,  houseless,  gray-haired  beggar  so 
happy,  over  whose  dying  hour  there  may  be  none  to 
watch  when  it  comes,  perhaps,  upon  him  in  a  snow  wreath, 
or  a  storm  among  the  hills  !  "  Did  I  ever  tell  you," 
continued  Sandy,  "  the  story  o'  the  brig  ?  Weel,  then, 
you  see  there  had  been  spate  in  the  Yearn  Water  the 
day  o'  John   Borland's  wedding,   and   the   broose  was  to 


THE    FOBESTEIJS.  83 

be  frae  the  Manse  o'  Mearns  into  Eagleshani.  Thinks  I 
to  myself  I  should  like  to  see  the  broose —  that  is,  to 
hear  the  brassie :  for  I  had  a  kind  o'  an  interest  in  anc 
o'  the  povvnies  —  Bob  Howie's  Pyet.  So  awhile  afore 
the  start,  aff  I  sets,  intending  to  take  my  station  on  a  bit 
knowe  at  the  brig  end.  A  kittle  turn  it  was  —  halfway 
down  a  stey  brae.  As  I  was  standing  on  a  bit  knowe, 
hearkening  about  me,  there  was  something  I  didna  weel 
understand  in  the  soun'  of  the  Yearn,  a  maist  desperate 
gurgling,  and  growling,  and  rampaging  o'  water  ;  and 
the  roar  seemed  to  gang  clean  up  to  the  skies,  without 
ony  deadening  effec'  o'  stane  and  lime.  O  ho!  thinks  I, 
what's  become  o'  the  brig?  I  gangs  cannily  on,  fit  by 
fit,  wi'  Service  before  me — (no  the  same  doggie  as  that 
aneath  my  chair,  but  the  father  o'  him  ;)  and  Service,  to 
be  sure,  youfs,  and  turns  about,  and  rugs  at  the  string, 
like  a  trout  that  has  been  weel  heucked  wi'  a  bait  heuck. 
The  bonnie  brig  o'  Humbie  had  sunk  down  before  the 
spate  like  a  pack  o'  cards ;  and,  heaven  hae  mercy ! 
there  comes  the  broose,  along  the  flat  afore  the  rising  o' 
the  hill,  a'  galloping  like  mad,  wi'  a  score  o'  lads  riding 
double,  wi'  bonnie  lasses  ahint  them.  Puir  blin'  crea- 
tures, they  were  a'  gallopping  to  destruction.  Up  I  gets, 
and  avva  like  lightning,  wi'  Service  barely  able  to  keep 
up  wi'  me ;  for  he  was  rather  pechy,  and  had  never  seen 
his  master  fleeing  in  that  gate  afore  —  roaring  out,  'The 
brig's  down  —  the  brig's  soopit  awa  by  the  spate.'  I 
heard  Bob  Howie  on  the  Pyet  —  for  weel  I  kent  the  cra- 
tur's  feet  like  so  many  hailstanes — 'The  brig's  fa'en 
down  ; '  but  ©n  drove  the  wild  deevil  —  for  he  feared 
naething  in  this  world  —  while,  thinks  I,  '  The  Pyet  '11 
flee  owre  the  Yearn,  and  ne'er  ken  the  brig's  missing.' 
However  the  broose  fell  lown,  and  the  Pyet  came  back 
to  where  I  was  stan'ing,  close  to  the  hedge;  for  there 
was  a  power  o'  rough  shod  cattle.  '  Ye  hae  saved  the 
lives  o'  mony  o'  us,  Sandy,'  said  John  Borland;  'what 
reward  shall  ye  have?'  Says  I  —  'A  kiss  o'  the  bride.' 
And  I  pried  her  mou,  (I  ask  your  pardon,  ladies,)  for  I 
was  a  young  chiel  then  —  no  exceeding  saxty  —  and  I 
had   known  Nancy  Whitelaw   since   she   was    a   bairn. 


84  THE    FORESTERS. 

Never  played  I  wl'  sic  birr  as  at  that  wedding ;  and  the 
company  collected  for  me  ayont  threlty  shillings,  to  say 
naething  o'claes.  The  truth  maun  be  spoken  —  I  wasna 
quite  sober  for  half  a  week  after.  There's  a  gude  deal 
o'  meaning  in  that  story,  Mr.  Kennedy;  but  aiblins  you 
have  heard  it  before,  though  I  never  tell  't  twice  the  same 
way;  and  yet  every  way  is  the  true  ane." 

In  an  hour  all  visiters  were  gone.  Agnes  and  Lucy 
accompanied  Mr.  and  Miss  Kennedy  as  far  as  the  linn  ; 
and  old  Sandy  Paisley  retired  thankfully  to  his  straw  bed 
in  an  outhouse  —  the  sort  of  lodging  which  the  blind 
mendicant  had  preferred  to  every  other  for  many  years. 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

It  was  within  his  own  heart  and  his  own  home  that 
Michael  Forester  found  the  most  eft'ectual  consolation 
under  his  irremediable  calamity  ;  but  the  universal  com- 
passion felt  for  him  over  the  parish,  and  expressed  in  a 
hundred  affecting  ways,  could  not  but  breathe  its  own 
peculiar  comfort.  He  knew  that  there  was  not  a  single 
fireside,  for  many  miles  round,  at  which  he  was  not 
thought  of,  and  prayers  offered  up  for  the  welfare  of  his 
family.  Not  a  day  passed  without  children  dropping  in 
with  inquiries  from  their  parents;  and  offers  were  made 
and  accepted  to  perform,  gratuitously,  little  pieces  of 
work  about  the  farm  which  could  not  be  delayed,  now 
that  the  power  of  the  summer  season  was  strong  on  the 
earth.  In  the  discharge  of  his  duties  as  atj  elder,  Mi- 
chael had  been  in  every  house  in  the  parish.  Families 
with  whom  he  had  scarcely  any  other  acquaintance,  now 
visited  him  with  much  of  the  affectionate  solicitude  of 
old  friends ;  while  the  few  to  whom  he  had  long  been 
attached  by  an  intimate  friendship,  behaved  like  brothers, 
or  sons,  or  fathers.     If  there  were  any  persons  who  look- 


THE    FORESTERS.  85 

ed  on  the  Foresters  with  unkindly  feelings  —  of  envy,  or 
jealousy,  or  causeless  offence  —  they  now  dismissed  all 
such  recollection  from  tlicir  minds,  and  bore  testimony 
to  Michael's  worth  and  the  piety  of  his  resignation.  Even 
Elspeth  Riddel  —  the  old  lonely  creature  of  niiiety  —  who 
had  not  been  able  to  attend  the  kirk  for  several  years, 
tottered  down  to  Bracken  Braes,  and  on  the  utmost  verge 
of  life,  with  the  world  fast  fading  away  from  her  dim 
eyes,  and  all  its  bands  long  ago  broken,  she  eagerly  be- 
seeclied  Michael  to  tell  her  how  his  mind  bore  this  dis- 
pensation, and  smiled  cheerfully  when  she  heard  his  col- 
lected reply,  like  one  still  interested  in  this  scene  of 
shadows. 

Michael  had  now  almost  completely  recovered  his  for- 
mer  strength ;    and,  at   first  sight,  a   stranger    could  not 
have  discovered  that  he  was  blind.     His  deportment  had 
always  been  quiet  and  grave,  altliougii   he  was   a  man  of 
great  strength  and  activity;  and  his  blindness  had  occa- 
sioned but  a  slight  alteration   in   his  appearance   and  his 
movements.     His  high,    broad,    ample   forehead,  chiefly 
fixed  the  notice  of  those  who  regarded  him ;  and  in  the 
pleasant  calm  of  his  other  intelligent  features,  it  was  not 
at  first  observed  that  his  eyes  were  extinguished.     Mi- 
chiel  Forester  was  generally  the  tallest  man  present;  and 
his  naturally  straight  and    erect  person  was  little,  if  any- 
thing, depressed   now   by  the   feeling  of  helplessness  or 
insecurity.     On  the  contrary,  much  was  added  to  its  dig- 
nity by  that   settled  calm  which,  approaching   to  melan- 
choly, was  only  found  not  to  be  so  when  you  entered  into 
conversation  vvith  him,  and  found  his  mind  alert  upon  all 
topics,  and  full   as  ever  of  the  power  of  intelligence  and 
enjoyment.    While  ordinary  — perhaps  frivolous —  mirth 
and  amusement  went  on  about  him,  Michael  sat,  unaware, 
perhaps,  of  the  trifling  pleasures  stirring  in  the  room  ;  or, 
if  aware  of  them,  he   allowed   them    to   proceed  without 
reofret  or  reproval.     He  remembered  what  he  had  himself 
been  a  couple  of  months  ago,  and  was  glad  to  think  that 
those  pleasant  pastimes  which  sweeten  life  were  going  or 
in  his  presence,  although   he  could   now  take  little  or  no 

8 


86  THE    FORESTERS. 

active  part  in  such  recreations.  Voices  now  were  to  liini 
the  sole  symbols  of  affection  and  happiness;  and  he  felt 
himself  every  day  recognising  shades  of  tone  in  the  voices 
of  those  he  most  loved,  that  expressed  to  him  all  the  va- 
rieties of  the  most  watchful  feeling,  and  seemed  even  to 
yield  him  a  deeper  knowledge  than  he  had  ever  possessed 
before  both  of  their  love  and  their  character.  A  word 
from  his  Agnes  was  now  even  more  than  a  smile  had 
been  before;  and  when  he  heard  Lucy  laughing  or  sing- 
ing, in  or  out  of  doors,  he  also  at  the  same  time  saw  the 
h'jppy  creature  as  vividly  in  her  beauty  as  if  he  had  gazed 
upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes.  Already  he  felt  the  gra- 
cious processes  going  on  within  him,  by  which  nature 
supplies  those  losses  which  would  seem  fatal  to  the  peace 
of  a  mortal  being,  and  finally  converts  into  a  blessing  that 
elevates  the  whole  life,  that  which  still  continues  to  ap- 
pear to  others  to  be  a  curse  that  would  almost  make 
death  itself  welcome  to  the  stricken  spirit. 

It  was  now  the  time  of  the  sacrament  in  the  parish  of 
Holylee.  The  kirk  was  a  very  small  edifice,  and  with  its 
narrow  aisle,  if  the  passage  may  so  be  called  that  divided 
the  pews,  was  ill  adapted  for  the  celebration  of  that  rite. 
Accordingly,  it  had  been  the  usage,  from  time  immemo- 
rial, to  administer  the  sacrament  in  the  open  air.  There 
was  a  low  round  hill,  not  far  from  the  kirk,  with  a  plat  of 
level  ground  at  its  foot,  of  which,  as  it  was  a  sheep  pas- 
ture, the  herbage  was  always  smooth  and  short.  Round 
this  green  eminence  the  streamlet  glided  away  like  a 
dream;  and,  within  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  yards, 
an  unseen  waterfall  refreshed  the  place  with  a  perpetual 
murmur.  The  knoll  was  covered  with  the  congregation, 
and  on  the  edge  of  the  plat  stood  a  tent  from  which  the 
zealous  minister  addressed  his  flock.  On  that  plat,  too, 
the  tables  were  spread  —  there  the  elders  placed  the 
bread  and  wine;  and  beneath  the  blue  skies  of  heaven 
was  ratified  that  mysterious  covenant  between  fallen  man 
and  his  Redeemer. 

At  this  summer's  sacrament,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon 
Michael  Forester.  For  several  years  before,  he  had  been 
seen  there  acting  as  an  elder;  but  now  he  did  not  ven- 


THE    FORESTERS.  87 

ture  to  tTke  upon  himself  any  active  duties.  Kind  way 
was  made  for  him  and  his  f\imily,  as,  walking  between 
Agnes  and  Lucy,  he  entered  among  the  seats  placed  on 
the  greensward.  Lucy  had  hold  of  her  father's  hand, 
and  every  eye  blessed  the  little  beautiful  guide.  The 
blind  man  was  delighted  in  his  darkness  to  hear  the  rus- 
tle of  the  leaves  of  Psalm  Book  and  Bible,  as  the  congre- 
gation prepared  to  sing  the  praises  of  their  God,  or  looked 
out  the  text  from  which  their  pastor  was  to  preach  the 
tidings  of  salvation.  He  thought  of  other  meetings  of 
other  years,  yet  his  soul  was  not  dismayed. 

During  this  solemn  service,  the  eyes  of  one  young  crea- 
ture especially,  Emma  Cranstoun,  were  often  fixed  on  the 
fiimilyof  the  Foresters.  She  was  then,  indeed,  the  Lady 
of  the  Hirst;  for  her  father  had  died  several  years  ago, 
and  her  only  brother  was  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Verdun. 
Emma  Cranstoun  had  been  educated  fashionably  in  Eng- 
land, and  this  was  the  first  summer  she  had  been  in  Scot- 
land since  her  infancy.  Although  one  so  well  born  could 
not  want  friends,  yet  Emma,  in  the  midst  of  riches  and 
splendor,  had  long  been  as  much  to  be  pitied  as  the  poor- 
est orphan.  Her  heart  was  by  nature  formed  for  every 
pure  affection,  but  it  had  been  locked  up  during  those 
years  when  the  fountain  of  feeling  flows  with  most  force 
and  clearness.  Delicate  health  brought  her  to  the  Hirst, 
to  breathe  for  a  summer  the  air  of  her  native  hills  ;  and 
being  on  a  visit,  for  a  few  days,  at  the  manse,  she  now 
attended  the  sacrament  at  Holylee,  and  took  her  place 
among  the  humblest  parishioners.  Early  during  the  ser- 
vice her  eyes  had  fallen  on  Agnes  and  Lucy,  whom  she 
saw  to  be  mother  and  daughter.  Michael's  calamity  she 
had  heard  spoken  of,  and  her  heart  was  suddenly  touched 
with  emotions  of  pity  and  admiration,  Although  there 
was  little  difference  in  their  dress  from  that  of  their  lowly 
equals,  Emma  Cranstoun  saw  at  once  about  them  a  finer 
character  of  feclingr  and  intelligence.  Her  heart  was  in- 
terested,  attracted,  drawn  towards  the  group  by  the  cords 
of  some  invisible  sympathy  ;  and,  after  the  service  was 
concluded,  she  told  Miss  Kennedy  that  she  wished  to 
speak  to  her  tenant,  Michael   Forester.      The  impression 


88  THE    FORESTERS. 

which,  unaware  to  them,  Michael  and  his  family  had 
made  upon  the  young  Lady  of  llie  Hirst,  was  rendered 
still  more  favorable  during  that  short  conversation;  and 
Emma  Cranstoun,  who  had  scarcely  ever  before  spoken 
to  a  cottager,  because  she  liad  had  no  opportunities,  was 
touched  with  a  new  delight  on  finding  so  much  sense, 
grace,  and  beauty  in  those  whom  she  had  been  taught  to 
consider  almost  an  inferior  order  of  beings.  Emma 
Cranstoun  was  but  sixteen  years  old,  and  Lucy  was  ele- 
ven, so  that  her  heart  yearned  towards  the  child  at  every 
blush  that  mantled  round  her  downcast  eyes ;  and  she  said 
within  herself,  that  she  would,  that  very  evening,  pay  a 
visit  to  Bracken  Braes. 

Emma  Cranstoun,  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst,  was  accus- 
tomed to  follow  all  her  inclinations;  but  these  were  uni- 
formly innocent.  Self-willed  she  no  doubt  was,  but  her 
nature  was  a  happy  one,  and  even  her  caprices  were  vir- 
tuous. Her  heart  had  been  defrauded,  by  an  imperfect 
education,  out  of  much  that  was  the  natural  dowry  of 
youth;  but  it  had  received  no  taint  of  corruption.  She 
had  retained  her  simplicity  in  the  midst  of  false  or  exces- 
sive refinement ;  nor  had  the  hollow  hypocrisies  of  those 
to  whom  the  care  of  her  early  years  had  been  committed, 
taught  her  any  unconscious  imitation  of  artifice  or  deceit. 
The  creature  of  impulse  she  indeed  was,  but  her  impulses 
were  all  instinctively  towards  right  actions  and  the  socie- 
ty of  the  innocent  like  herself.  Of  this  kind  was  her 
strong  sudden  emotion  of  love  to  Lucy  Forester.  It  might 
be  called  a  mere  whim  —  a  sport  or  sally  of  the  humor  — 
yet  who  could  look  on  Lucy's  face  and  say,  that  to  love 
it  at  sight  was  either  thoughtless  or  unreasonable?  In 
the  calm  of  the  evening,  therefore,  Emma  look  with  her 
a  single  domestic,  and  walked  up  the  vale  towards  Brack- 
en Braes. 

With  a  delighted  wonder  at  its  perfect  neatness,  order, 
and  beauty,  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  stood  below  the  plane 
tree  and  gazed  on  the  cottage.  The  enchantment  of 
heavenly  music  rose  from  within  with  many  a  joyful 
swell,  and  many  a  pathetic  close.  She  knew  that  the 
family   were  praising  their  Maker  —  that    this    was    the 


THE    FORESTERS.  89 

evening  psalm.  She  turned  aside  her  head  to  listen  more 
intently,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  golden  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  The  pure  evening  air  —  the  walk  up  the 
vale  —  the  whole  solemn  business  of  the  day  ^ — and  the 
novelty  of  all  around  her,  worked  upon  her  heart  and 
her  imagination  ;  and  when  the  hymn  ceased,  Emma  felt 
the  tears  on  her  cheek,  and  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  disturbed 
happiness.  It  seemed  as  if,  since  this  Sabbath  morning, 
a  new  life  and  a  new  world  had  been  revealed  to  her, 
and  that  before  this  evening  she  had  known  little  or 
nothing  either  of  her  own  heart  or  of  her  fellow  crea- 
tures. 

Lucy  was  leading  her  father  out  to  his  seat  below  the 
plane  tree,  to  enjoy  an  hour  of  its  dim  shadow,  before 
they  all  retired  to  rest,  when  she  beheld  the  Lady  of  the 
Hirst  smiling  upon  her  with  the  most  affable  benignity. 
"  Father,  father,  our  Lady  is  here,"  breathed  Lucy  in  a 
whisper;  and  Michael  turned  respectfully  towards  the 
sweet  voice  of  their  visiter.  Agnes  and  Aunt  Isobel  were 
soon  of  the  party  ;  and  Emma  sat  on  the  osier  seat  beneath 
the  tree,  surrounded  by  her  new  friends,  who  regarded 
her  with  affectionate  admiration.  Agnes  Hay  was  fair 
in  her  matronly  serenity,  and  beautiful  Lucy  indeed  was, 
with  all  her  kindling  smiles,  half  subdued  by  bashfulness 
and  humility  ;  but  Emma  Cranstoun  possessed  that  charm 
which  only  high  refinement  can  give,  and  which  is  alto- 
gether irresistible  and  inimitable  when  united,  as  in  her 
it  was,  with  simplicity  as  unaffected  as  ever  belonged  to 
rural  innocence  in  the  most  solitary  dwelling.  "  They 
say  that  the  Cranstouns  have  ever  been  a  beautiful  family," 
whispered  Aunt  Isobel  to  Agnes ;  "  but  never,  surely, 
since  they  bore  that  name,  was  there  a  fiiirer  daughter  of 
that  house  than  that  lovely  image."  Then,  seeing  a  slight 
hectic  flush  on  the  lady's  cheek,  Agnes  entreated  her  not 
to  sit  in  the  dews,  but  to  honor  a  poor  man's  house  with 
her  presence. 

The   conversation  led   insensibly   into  the   cares  and 
joys,  the   pains  and  pleasures  belonging  to  humble  life. 
Emma  Cranstoun  asked  a  great  many  questions,  but  every 
c* 


90  THE    FORESTERS. 

sentence  seemed  to  awaken  her  heart.  Hiiherlo  she  had 
seen,  and  only  seen  poor  men's  houses,  and  passed  them 
by  witliout  a  feeling  or  a  thought.  She  had  seen  the 
smoke  rising  from  the  chimneys  in  the  morning  or  even- 
ing calm,  and  thought  it  beautiful  ;  but,  as  it  dissolved 
in  the  air,  it  was  forgotten,  as  if  it  had  been  a  picture  of 
an  unreal  thing.  Now  she  looked  with  intense  interest 
on  all  the  furniture  of  the  farm  house;  and  homely  as  it 
was,  in  comparison  with  the  splendor  in  which  she  had 
always  lived,  she  could  not  but  feel  how  interesting  and 
appropriate  it  was,  and  how  true  the  character  of  every- 
thing belonging  to  those  excellent  people  was  to  their 
condition.  "  Are  all  the  families  of  humble  life  like 
this?"  thought  the  simple  girl ;  if  so,  may  I  live  all  my 
days  at  the  Hirst,  and  be  a  daily  visiter  among  the  cot- 
tages." 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  there  was  now  as  much 
darkness  as  there  would  be  during  the  whole  night.  The 
Lady  of  the  Hirst,  more  than  courteously,  wished  good 
night  to  Michael,  Agnes,  and  Aunt  Isobel  ;  and  happy 
indeed  was  Lucy  to  walk  by  her  side,  part  of  the  way,  to 
the  Manse.  "  Do  you  think,  my  pretty  Lucy,  that  you 
could  love  me  ;  for  I  wish  that  we  were  friends  1"  Lucy 
was  afraid  to  speak  ;  the  very  thought  of  such  a  superior 
being  to  herself  calling  her  friend,  was  more  than  the 
simple  child  could,  for  a  moment,  imagine.  But  all  the 
way  back  from  the  manse,  beneath  the  moon  and  the 
stars,  Lucy  was  thinking,  in  her  delight,  what  she  could 
do  for  that  beautiful  lady  —  how  she  could  serve  her  in 
any  way,  however  small,  only  to  shew  her  gratitude  ;  and, 
when  she  thought  on  that  sweet  smile,  and  still  sweeter 
voice,  addressed  to  her  blind  father,  Lucy  felt  that  she 
could  die  willingly  for  one  so  free  from  pride,  so  lovely, 
and  so  compassionate.  Agnes,  whose  quiet  heart  was 
yet  at  all  times  filled  with  tenderest  anxieties  about  Lucy, 
this  night  laid  her  head  on  her  husband's  bosom  with  an 
assurance  that  her  child  }iad  found  a  friend  ;  and  that 
fair  and  benignant  creature  was  before  her  in  her  dreams. 


THE    FORESTERS.  91 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


Little  more  than  half  of  Michael  Forester's  lease  of 
twenty-one  years  had  expired,  when  he  had  lost  his  sight; 
and  during  the  first  despair  of  that  deprivation,  he  had 
thought  of  giving  up  his  farm.  But  he  soon  felt  that  there 
was  no  necessity  for  doing  so,  and  that  with  faithful 
assistance  he  could  continue  to  pay  his  rent,  and  do 
justice  to  the  heautiful  property  he  had  so  long  cultivated. 
That  assistance  he  had  found  in  William  Laidlaw,  a 
nephew  of  the  old  childless  couple  at  Mooredge.  All 
the  braes  had  long  been  clear  pasturage — the  holms  by 
the  streamlet's  side  were  rich  in  natural  soil  and  generous 
treatment  —  each  enclosed  field  had  been  brought  to  sus- 
tain unexhausted  its  due  rotations  of  crop  —  the  small 
coppice  woods,  preserved  from  sheep  and  cattle,  flourished 
amain  with  their  oaks,  birks,  and  hazels  —  while  here 
and  there  among  the  hedge-rows  stood  an  ash  or  an  elm 
of  no  mean  growth,  and  casting  a  grateful  shadow  in  the 
pastoral  solitude.  Now  that  nearly  three  years  had 
elapsed  since  his  blindness,  Michael  had  every  reason  to 
believe  that  Bracken  Braes  still  preserved  its  superiority 
over  every  other  farm  in  the  parish. 

During  these  three  years  it  was  astonishing  what  pro- 
gress Michael  Forester  had  made  in  that  practical  educa- 
tion which  the  blind  pursue  under  the  guidance  of  nature. 
Indeed,  he  had  many  and  great  advantages  over  the 
generality  of  men  reduced  to  that  condition.  His  strong 
natural  talents  and  deep  natural  affections  had  all  been 
genially  cultured  and  cherished,  so  that,  from  the  first 
week  of  his  affliction,  his  mind  and  his  heart  had  neither 
of  them  been  left  desolate.  Thoughts  and  feelings  had 
been  stored  up  against  that  evil  day,  and  the  blind  man 
felt  strong  in  knowledge  and  in  love.  His  habits  had, 
from  boyhood,  been  of  a  thoughtful  cast;  and  when  the 
presence  of  the  visible  world  was  veiled  from  his  eyes, 
his    meditations    only   became    more    concentrated  —  or 


92  THE    FORESTERS. 

rather  more  spiritual ;  but  there  had  been  no  violent 
wrenching  away  or  breaking  off;  and,  in  an  incredibly 
short  time,  memory  supplied  the  place  of  sight,  and  her 
images  were  substantial  as  realities.  His  body  and  his 
limbs  were  powerful  and  active  beyond  those  of  most 
men  ;  and  he  soon  learned  to  plant  his  feet  on  the  ground 
without  shrinking  or  timidity,  and  to  walk  along  fearless 
of  all  obstructions.  A  hundred  sounds  unnoticed  before 
were  now  familiar  to  him,  each  signifying  something 
useful  for  the  blind  to  know.  He,  by  degrees,  observed 
how  all  surrounding  objects  modified  his  perceptions. 
Measurements  of  relative  distances  were  unconsciously 
made  in  his  mind  every  shorter  or  longer  walk  he  took, 
and  paths  became  known  to  him  alone,  existing  not  to 
the  eyes  of  others,  but  traced  out  by  his  ear  and  his 
touch.  The  stream  could  not  wind  its  most  noiseless  way 
without  his  ear  detecting  the  altered  -murmur  over  deep 
or  shallow.  He  knew  in  a  moment  precisely  where  he 
stood,  as  the  gentle  din  of  the  tiny  waterfall  rose  up  from 
among  the  hazles.  The  cawing  of  the  rooks  rising  or 
falling  on  his  ear,  told  him  how  far  he  was  from  the  Hirst 
woods ;  and  he  knew,  from  the  plover's  cry,  before  he 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  moss.  Echoes,  that  others  heard 
not,  whispered  to  him  the  path  in  his  solitude.  The  hol- 
low ground —  the  acclivity  —  the  bent  —  the  lea — the 
light  gravelly  soil —  the  heavy  till  —  the  moss  turf  —  the 
heather  patch  —  the  wet  rushy  flat  —  the  stony  upland 
—  here  and  there  a  huge  rock  —  or  an  extended  preci- 
pice—  by  help  of  these  characters,  he  reperused  in  his 
darkness  the  country  around  him,  that  he  had  so  long 
studied  with  open  eyes ;  and  thus  every  month  he  heard 
and  felt  his  way  farther  and  farther  among  the  braes, 
hills,  and  mountains.  He  soon  found  that  his  long  staff 
was  indeed  like  a  feeler,  as  old  Sandy  Paisley  had  told 
him,  and  that  it  was  really  every  part  of  his  existence. 
But  it  was  not  thus  that  all  his  practice  had  been  acquired  ; 
for  his  gentle,  patient,  and  devoted  Agnes  was  for  ever 
at  his  side  ;  or,  Aunt  Isobel,  whose  lamp  burned  with  a 
more  cheerful  glow  as  the  mist  of  years  gathered  round 
it  —  or  Lucy  led  the  way  with  a  dance  and  a  song,  or 


THE    FORESTERS.  93 

hushed  and  silent  as  an  undisturljcd  lapwing  walking  on 
the  solitary  lea.  When  alone,  which  he  not  unfrequently 
was,  even  at  a  distance  from  the  house,  he  knew  that  the 
eye  of  God  was  upon  every  footstep  of  the  blind,  and 
beyond  all  doubt,  that  very  calamity  itself  brought  wis- 
dom. The  creature  was  told  by  a  still  small  voice  to 
throw  itself  upon  its  Creator. 

In  such  a  state  of  mind,  what  a  blessing  was  such  a 
wife  as  Agnes!  What,  if  a  vain,  light,  unintelligent  wo- 
man had  been  called  upon  to  assist  and  comfort  him, 
even  although  conjugal  affection  had  subsisted  in  her 
bosom  !  But  here  was  a  guardian  being  constantly  near 
him,  night  and  day,  strong  in  peace,  innocence,  and  piety. 
No  storm.y  passion  had  ever  broken  the  calm  continuity 
of  her  blameless  life.  Never  had  she  denied  God  or  her 
Saviour,  by  vain  repining  or  wilful  disobedience.  Her 
Bible  had  not  been  taken  up  casually,  giving  unwelcome 
intimations  that  were  neglected  in  worldly  cares,  or  that 
served  only  to  sadden  the  heart  with  the  touch  of  feelings 
too  solemn  and  sacred  to  hold  long  alliance  with  mere 
earthly  affections.  But  in  that  Bible  she  had,  from  the 
dawn  of  reason,  seen  revealed  a  light  that  never  was 
eclipsed  by  the  clouds  of  this  world.  Let  her  read  that 
book  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times,  not  a  single  page 
ever  became  wearisome  on  the  repetition  !  To  what  state 
of  the  soul  might  not  one  or  other  of  those  touching  para- 
bles be  applied!  On  evening  of  work  day,  alike  as  on 
that  of  the  Sabbath,  had  her  heart  ever  been  open  to  that 
Sermon  on  the  Mount !  So  that  when  her  blind  husband 
was  sitting  by  the  fireside,  that  blazed  with  the  old  roots 
his  own  hands  had  collected,  and  Lucy  working,  or  read- 
ing, or  singing,  beneath  the  quick  notice  of  Aunt  Isobel's 
eyes,  while  all  the  room  was  else  silent,  but  the  tick  of 
the  clock,  or  the  rustling  noise  in  his  wicker  cage  of  a 
thrush  that  had  never  known  liberty  ;  at  such  an  hour, 
in  that  hut,  restorative  and  like  a  voice  from  above  was 
the  memory  of  those  words  —  "  Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  " 

And  during  the  three  years  of  her  father's  blindness, 
how  had  his  Lucy  shot  up  into  a  stately  flower!     On  that 


94  THE    FORESTERS. 

disastrous  day  in  the  Hirst  Wood,  she  was  but  a  child  — 
now  she  was  the  fairest  maiden  of  all  the  hills.  Month 
after  month  had  Michael  felt  her  head  growing  up  beneath 
his  hand  —  and  he  had  not  now  to  stoop  so  low  to  kiss 
her  cheek.  Her  voice  had  lost  much  of  its  infantine 
tone,  and  was  deepened  into  a  mellow  music.  Free, 
still,  were  her  motions  in  the  open  air  as  those  of  the 
fawn  at  play;  but  she  stepped  about  the  house,  of  which 
she  had  now  her  own  part  in  the  arrangements,  with  a 
blithesome  carefulness  ;  while  at  church,  she  sat  as  per- 
fectly composed  and  attentive  during  the  whole  service 
as  the  oldest  person.  Her  feelings  were  naturally  quick, 
warm  —  almost  impatient ;  and  when  left  wholly  to  her- 
self, Lucy  might  sometimes  be  wayward  and  headstrong; 
but  when  any  duty  called  her  to  her  father,  then  in  a 
moment  she  was  hushed,  like  a  lark  that  drops  down 
suddenly  into  its  nest  from  the  sky  when  the  shadow  of 
the  hawk  is  seen  on  the  hill  side.  Nor  did  Michael 
Forester  deny  to  his  Lucy  any  of  the  harmless  pastimes 
suitable  to  her  age.  Each  season  had  its  holidays,  and 
perhaps  winter,  with  all  its  snow,  gloom,  and  darkness, 
was  to  Lucy  the  cheerfullest  time  of  all  the  year.  Then 
she  and  the  Maynes  went  for  a  month  or  two  to  the 
dancing,  in  a  barn  near  the  Manse,  or  to  learn  church 
music  in  the  village  school.  But,  above  all,  the  other 
festivals  that  came  between  their  long  intervals  of  homely 
life,  tinging  them  with  the  hues  of  imagination,  was  merry 
Halloween.  In  that  secluded  glen,  the  mirthful  supersti- 
tion of  that  night  was  felt  to  be  prolonged  almost  from 
winter  to  winter.  Bracken  Braes  was  most  frequently 
the  chosen  scene  of  the  revels.  The  commodious  kitchen 
was  decked  with  branches  of  the  hawthorn,  red  with  its 
humble  fruit  —  and  with  the  holly  boughs,  cut  without 
mercy,  and  in  spite  of  all  their  prickles,  to  brighten  the 
festivities.  Then  the  easily  excited  spirit  of  childhood 
and  youth  threw  all  its  feelings  and  all  its  fancy  into  the 
hazle-nuts  that  cracked  away  from  the  ruddy  embers ; 
and  many  a  pretty  face,  in  vain  pursuit  of  the  swimming 
apples,  hung  over  the  water-pail,  with  its  long  heavy 
tresses  to  be  readjusted  by  the  hand  of  some  boyish  sweet- 


THE    FORESTERS.  95 

heart.  Meanwhile  the  older  people  carried  on  their  own 
conversation  hy  the  chimney  nook,  undisturbed  by  the 
noisy  mirth  that  gave  a  happier  flow  to  their  own  thoughts  ; 
and  many  a  joke  went  round  the  circle  —  the  wit  of  the 
lowly  mind  that  seldom  lacks,  in  its  contentment,  a  strong 
trace  of  kindliness,  and  wisely  sports  with  the  hardships 
of  the  poor  man's  life. 

Nor  had  that  visit  of  the  young  and  beautiful  Lady  of 
the  Hirst  been  the  last,  by  at  least  a  hundred,  during 
those  few  years  at  Bracken  Braes.  Emma  Cranstoun's 
heart  had  received,  on  that  Sabbath,  an  impression  which 
was  never  to  be  effiiced.  Not  without  great  injustice 
could  it  have  been  said  that  the  innocent  girl  had  not 
before  that  day  been  a  Christian  ;  for,  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  vanities  with  which  her  steps  had  been  surrounded, 
she  had  never  been  a  stranger  to  the  place  of  worship, 
nor  unacquainted  with  her  Bible.  But  the  influence  that 
ought  to  have  been  prevalent  and  abiding,  had  been  but 
partial  and  transitory;  that  look  had  been  taken  up  only 
at  formal  intervals  of  time  far  otherwise  occupied  ;  and  the 
Sab[)ath  day,  not  more  than  decently  observed,  stood  by 
itself  uncommunicaiing  with  the  week  ;  so  that  a  pious 
spirit  had  still  to  be  reawakened  and  renewed.  Neither  had 
the  life  she  had  been  constrained  to  lead  frequently  stirred 
her  best  human  affections.  But  as  soon  as  her  eyes  had 
been  opened  to  the  knowledge,  however  limited,  of  hum- 
ble rural  life,  she  beheld  before  her  wants  that  she  could 
supply;  sorrows  that  she  could  assuage;  evils  that  she 
could  avert ;  and  joys  that  she  could  increase  tenfold ; 
while,  thenceforth,  all  the  precepts  of  Christianity,  either 
of  will  or  deed,  seemed  to  call  upon  her  for  obedience 
and  practice.  She  had  carried  the  beauty  of  her  presence 
into  every  house  in  the  parish ;  her  charities,  under  the 
advice  of  Mr.  Kennedy  and  Michael  Forester,  had  become 
every  season  more  effective;  and  happy  were  all  —  rich, 
independent,  and  poor  —  to  see  that,  on  those  errands  of 
real  religion,  the  lady  whom  all  loved,  had  drawn  new 
health  from  the  pure  gales  of  heaven  —  that  all  symptoms 
of  that  fatal  malady  had  left  her  cheek  —  and  that  Provi- 
dence, under  whom   she  humbly  served,  had  bidden  her 


96  THE    FORESTEKS. 

own  native  hills  breathe  into  her  bosom  a  stronger  spirit 
of  life. 

And  where,  during  all  those  years,  was  poor  forgotten 
Mary   Morrison,  Lucy's  earliest  friend?     Had   all  their 
affectionate  thoughts   towards  each  other,   as   they  had 
often  sat  in  the   same   plaid,  in  the  moors  and  mosses, 
passed  away  like  the  sounds  and  the  shadows  of  that  soli- 
tude?    Had  Lucy  lost  in   her  pride,  now  that  she  was  a 
guest  even  at  the  Hirst,  all  her  more  than  sisterly  love 
for  meek  Mary  Morrison  in  that  lonely  hut  with  her  stern 
father?     No;  Lucy  learned   other  lessons    from   Emma 
Cranstoun  ;   and  she  who  had  been  Mary's  helpless  friend 
in  their  infant  days,  had   now  become  her   benefactress. 
For  she  had  ventured  to  speak  to  the  Lady  about  Ewe- 
bank ;   and  Abraham  Morrison,  with  whom  the  world  had 
gone  hardly,  had  got  such  a  reduction  of  his  rent,  and 
such   remission  of  arrears,  that  he  had  not  only  kept  his 
head  fairly  above  water  now,  but,  which  was  a  great  ad- 
mission from   him,  acknowledged  that  he   had  reason  to 
be  contented.     Lucy's   love  for  Mary  was  the  same  as 
ever — there    was    no    inequality    in    their    condition  — 
although  Ewebank  was,  indeed,  a  far  poorer  place  than 
Bracken   Braes;   and   while  Mary  shewed,  by  her  whole 
behavior,  that  she  thought   Lucy  far   her  superior   in  all 
things,  besides  her  beauty,  in  which   there  was  none  in- 
deed to  compare  with  her   in   both  parishes;  yet  Lucy, 
true  to   the   bliss  of  former  days,  and   without  even  the 
shadow  of  change,  saw  in  Mary   the  very  perfection  of 
sense  and  sweetness,  and  with  the  same  open  and  yearn- 
ing  heart  as  ever,  as  she  came  from  visiting  the  Lady  of 
the   Hirst,  turned   away  up  the   narrow   birchen  glen   of 
Ewebank,  and   by  the  ingle,  or  on  the   brae   side,  whis- 
pered away  a  few  happy  hours  with  Mary  Morrison. 

"  O,  Lucy,  dear,"  said  that  humble  creature,  as  one 
day  they  were  sitting  in  their  plaids  on  the  hill,  "  do  you 
know  that  I  dream  so  often  of  my  mother,  that  sometimes 
I  think  it  must  be  her  ghost  that  visits  me  in  my 
sleep  :  she  seems  to  weep  —  although  not  like  one  of  us 
mortal  creatures  —  and  asks  me  if  I  am  happy."  —  "  How 
very  young  you  must  have  been,  Mary,  when  your  moth- 


THE    FORESTERS.  97 

er  died !  for  I  never  saw  her ;  but  has  she  aye  the  same 
face  in  your  dreams?"  —  "Ay,  Lucy;  the  same  white 
mournfu'  face  she  wore  when  I  used  to  sit  upon  her  knee. 
1  remember  it  just  as  weel  as  if  she  had  been  buried 
yesterday.  My  father  was  not  at  home  the  day  she  was 
taken  away.  Oh !  dear  Lucy,  how  my  father  looked  and 
groaned  for  months  —  perhaps  a  year  —  after  her  death. 
Do  you  ken,  I  dinna  think  she  was  very  happy  :  my  fa- 
ther is  unco  severe  sometimes,  and  if  it  werena  for  you, 
Lucy,  I  wud  sometimes  maist  wish  myself  i'  the  mouls; 
but  when  I  think  that  surely  we  twa  will  be  freen's  a'  our 
days,  then  I  canna  help  singing  by  mysel',  or  being  cheer- 
fu'  as  the  morning."  —  "  Ay,  sure  enough,  Mary,  our 
love  will  never  die;  and,  long  as  we  behave  ourselves 
well,  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  will  be  our  friend.  But  look, 
Mary,  the  sun  is  going  fast  fast  down.  Farewell,  fare- 
well."—  "Oh!  dinna  be  lang  o'  coming  to  see  me 
again  "  said  Mary,  with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  and,  above 
a'  things,  dinna  think  that  I  lo'e  not  my  father.  O  Lucy  ! 
when  my  father  smiles,  or  even  when  his  countenance  is 
without  a  frown,  my  heart  beats  as  if  I  could  gang  up 
and  kiss  him  ;  and,  after  a',  every  ane  has  his  ain  way, 
and  my  father  has  his  :  there  is  nae  reason  to  think  he 
doesna  like  me,  his  only  bairn  ;  and  when  I  was  in  the 
wanderings  o'  that  fever,  he  was,  I  am  tauld,  sairly  dis- 
tracted." The  two  innocent  young  creatures  parted  on 
the  hill  side  —  Lucy  towards  a  cheerful  home,  filled  with 
comfort,  peace  and  affection,  where  blessings  awaited  her 
from  every  voice  and  eye ;  Mary  Morrison  to  a  hut,  per- 
haps silent  and  solitary,  or  overspread  with  the  gloom  of 
a  parent's  countenance,  who  knew  not  how  to  look  kind- 
ly in  his  affection  upon  his  only  child. 


98  THE    FORESTERS. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

Lucv  Forester's  fifteenth  spring  was  now  dawning 
upon  her  beauty ;  and,  although  she  had  sometimes 
brought  the  tear  to  her  mother's  eye,  and  awoke  Aunt 
Isobel's  short-lived  displeasure,  by  childish  indiscretions 
and  furgetfulness,  yet,  amidst  all  the  allowable  levities  of 
girlhood  that  occasionally  led  her  into  little  acts  of  diso- 
bedience, wilful  or  undesigned,  one  single  instance  of 
unkindness  or  neglect  to  her  father  had  never  been  laid 
to  her  charge.  Often  and  often  had  she  refused  making 
up  parties  of  pleasure  with  her  playmates,  because  he 
might  expect  her  to  lake  a  stroll  with  him  to  a  neighbor's 
house,  or  into  the  quiet  pastures;  and,  not  unfrequently, 
when,  on  the  very  eve  of  some  rural  festival,  she  found 
that  it  was  right  she  should  remain  at  home,  the  loving 
child  had  done  so,  not  only  without  murmuring,  but  with 
a  proud  delight.  Her  childhood  was  now  over,  or  nearly 
so;  and  her  father,  knowing  that  she  was  approaching 
the  verge  of  that  season  when  all  life  would  insensibly  ap- 
pear to  her  eyes  covered  with  a  different  color,  and  when 
her  affections  would  be  liable  to  wounds  from  many 
causes  that  to  her  had,  as  yet,  no  existence,  felt  an  anxie- 
ty for  her  sake  taking  hold  of  his  very  heart,  and  almost 
disturbing  his  sleep.  "  Our  happiness,"  he  would  some- 
times say  to  Agnes,  "  has  been  too  perfect  to  endure 
much  longer  :  "  and  he  began  now  to  be  unhappy  when- 
ever Lucy  was  out  of  hearing. 

At  the  Manse  there  had  lived,  for  about  a  twelve-month, 
a  youth  called  Edward  Ellis,  the  son  of  an  English  gen- 
tleman of  fortune,  who  had  been  an  intimate  friend  of 
Mr.  Kennedy.  He  was  now  nearly  seventeen  years  of 
age,  extremely  handsome,  and  a  universal  favorite  over 
the  whole  parish.  Edward  Ellis  was  a  boy  of  fine  talents, 
but  his  mind  had  not  yet  taken  kindly  to  books;  and,  al- 
though not  at  all  deficient  in  the  common  scholarship  of 
that  early  period  of  life,  all  that  he  knew  had  been  learn- 
ed almost  intuitively,  for  his  heart  lay  in  those  pursuits 


THE    FORESTERS.  99 

that  brought  him  into  immediate  and  free  intercourse 
with  his  fellow  creatures.  He  rejoiced  to  accompany 
Mr.  Kennedy  on  his  walks  or  visits,  and  thus  he  had  be- 
come quite  a  familiar  guest  at  the  firesides  of  the  cottag- 
ers, and  at  none  more  so  than  that  of  Bracken  Braes. 
He  was  not,  of  course,  without  the  romance  of  that  sea- 
son of  life,  and  Lucy  Forester  was  the  queen  of  his  fairy- 
land. 

The  love  of  Edward  Ellis,  however,  was  not  such  as 
to  break  his  slumbers,  destroy  his  appetite,  or  sicken  him 
with  his  amusements.  On  the  contrary,  he  slept  as 
soundly  as  any  cottar  after  a  day's  darg,  ate  heartily  at 
all  his  meals,  and  few  good  days  passed  by  in  winter  or 
spring  that  he  was  not  on  the  hills  with  his  gun,  or  on 
the  banks  of  the  river  with  his  angle.  His  day's  amuse- 
ment, however,  three  times  a  week,  terminated,  some- 
how or  other,  very  luckily  just  at  the  gate  of  Bracken 
Braes.  Most  happy  were  they  to  receive  the  noble  boy 
at  all  times;  and  Michael's  spirits,  it  was  observed,  were 
always  raised  by  his  animated,  open,  and  intelligent  con- 
versation. "  If  all  rich  people,  all  ladies  and  gentlemen," 
thought  Lucy,  "  are  like  Emma  Cranstoun  and  Edward 
Ellis,  how  happy  must  life  be  in  the  palaces  of  great 
cities! " 

Lucy  was  not  often  from  home  when  Edward  Ellis 
called  there  ;  but,  when  she  chanced  to  be  so,  she  felt 
something  like  a  disappointment.  She  never  went  now 
on  an  errand  down  to  the  village  —  a  dozen  hamlets  bear- 
ing the  name  of  the  parish  —  that  she  did  not,  uncon- 
sciously, entertain  a  hope  that  he  might  be  angling  with- 
in sight,  or  meet  her  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood. 
She  had  never  thought  much  about  her  own  beauty,  till 
she  overheard  Edward  Ellis  praising  it  in  warm  admira- 
tion ;  and,  from  that  time,  Lucy  Forester  would  stand  a 
few  minutes  at  her  mirror,  after  she  had  arranged  her 
simple  dress,  and,  perhaps,  return  to  it  again  to  alter  a 
ringlet  over  her  forehead. 

The  quick  eye  of  Aunt  Tsobel  saw,  but  without  any 
pain,  the  attachment  of  their  sincere  and  uncorrupted 
hearts.     It  was  a  delightful  dream,  that  would,  of  itself. 


100  THE    FORESTERS. 

pass  away,  and  yet  leave  no  wound  behind.  In  another 
year,  Edward  Ellis  was  to  return  to  England,  and  the  im- 
age of  Lucy  would  then  seem  to  him  like  that  of  some 
shepherdess  of  whom  he  had  read  in  a  pastoral  poem  ; 
while  Lucy,  happy  in  the  humble  enjoyments  spread 
around  her  feet  on  the  floor  of  her  father's  cottage,  would 
let  him  depart  for  ever  to  the  land  of  his  nativity,  nor 
send  after  him,  when  a  month  was  gone,  more  than  a 
tender  wish  for  his  perpetual  welfare.  Yet  the  thought- 
ful old  lady,  in  praising  Mr.  Edward  Ellis,  always  took 
care  to  speak  of  his  departure  from  the  glen  as  not  far 
distant,  and  probably  for  ever;  at  which  times,  Lucy 
would  give  something  almost  like  a  sigh,  and  keep  her 
eyes  fixed  pensively  on  the  ground  ;  but  the  indistinct 
dream  soon  deserted  her  imagination,  and  she  would 
break  out  a-singing  in  her  happiness. 

There  was  a  little  waterfall  of  singular  beauty,  about 
half  a  mile  from  Bracken  Braes,  just  half  way  down  the 
stream  to  the  Manse.  The  green  hills  closed  ni  suddenly 
upon  some  low  rocks  that  lay  quite  across  the  stream, 
so  that  the  waters,  parting  in  two  nearly  equal  divisions, 
poured  over  in  separate  cascades  into  the  pool ;  while 
between  them  rose  up  a  natural  pillar,  from  whose  base 
sprung  a  few  weeping  birch  trees,  and  a  single  mountain 
ash.  About  a  rood  of  grass-plat  was  level  with  the 
sleeping  waters  below ;  and  down  into  that  solitary,  but 
always  cheerful  place,  a  sheep  track  led  along  one  side 
of  the  brae.  An  old  decayed  yew,  covered  entirely  with 
ivy,  and  called  the  Howlet's  Nest,  stood  within  reach  of 
the  spray  that  kept  its  mantle  in  perpetual  verdure. 
Here  Lucy  bleached  the  garments  she  brought  from 
Bracken  Braes,  and  here  Edward  Ellis  was  fonder  of 
angling  than  in  any  other  pool  on  all  the  water.  Unde- 
signedly, but  fortunately,  had  it  become  a  trysting  place 
to  these  youthful  lovers. 

There  are  often  days  before  February  has  closed,  that 
come  down  unexpectedly,  and  without  warning,  from 
heaven,  with  a  delightful  summer  feeling  that  is  not  ex- 
ceeded in  softness  even  by  the  balmy  June.     On  such  a 


THE    FORESTERS. 


101 


day,  Lucy  and  Edward  found  themselves  together  beside 
the  Hovvlet's  Nest. 

"  Will  Lucy  Forester  give  Edward  Ellis  a  lock  of  her 
hair,  to  keep  for  the  sake  o'  the  bonniest  lassie  in  a' 
Scotland,  when  he  may  be  wandering  afar  off,  perhaps 
in  a  foreign  country,  away  beyond  the  seas?" 

"  Oh  me!  Mr.  Ellis,"  cried  Lucy  with  a  beating  heart; 
"  are  you,  indeed,  going  away  from  llolylee,  never  more 
to  return?"  And  tears,  she  wished  not  to  reveal,  in  the 
sincerity  of  her  innocent  affection,  trickled  down  her 
cheeks,  from  which  the  rose  leaf  color  had  in  an  instant 
vanished. 

"  No,  no,  my  sweet  Lucy,  not  for  another  year  at 
least ;  and  that  is  a  long  lono-  time,  is  it  not?  with  many 
months  of  long  summer  days,  and  many  months  of  long 
winter  nights,  it  is  hard  to  say  which  the  happiest." 

Lucy  felt  relieved  from  a  deadly  feeling  ;  for  a  year, 
to  her  young  imagination,  did,  in  truth,  appear  an  almost 
unbounded  time ;  and,  since  Edward  Ellis  was  not  to 
leave  Holylee  for  a  whole  year,  she  was  again  nearly 
happy  as  ever.  Edward  took  one  of  her  rich  auburn 
ringlets  that  hung  over  her  temples,  and,  while  Lucy 
stood  still  in  her  joyful  tears,  he  fastened  a  little  gold 
brooch  on  her  bosom,  whose  beauty,  like  that  of  the 
white  lily,  was  alike  fair  in  shade  and  sunshine. 

"  Now,  Lucy,  sing  me  one  of  Burns'  songs  ;  and,  if 
you  please,  let  it  be  —  'To  Mary  in  Heaven.'  " 

The  happy  girl  at  once  complied;  and,  while  Edward 
Ellis  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  with  all  the  tender- 
ness of  youth,  she  sung  that  beautiful  hymn  to  the  mel- 
ancholy accompaniment  of  the  lonesome  waterfall. 

Isaac  Mayne,  the  scholar  and  poet  of  the  vale,  came 
down  the  footpath,  and  stood  before  the  pair,  just  as 
Lucy  was  singing,  for  the  last  time,  the  pathetic  line 
that  commences  and  closes  the  hymn.  Isaac  was  several 
years  older  than  Lucy — about  seventeen  —  but  having 
been  in  Edinburgh  for  successive  winters,  and  when  at 
home  buried  in  his  studies,  he  had  not  been  much  at 
Bracken  Braes  since  she  had  been  a  mere  child.     Isaac 


102  THE    FORESTERS. 

Mayne,  however,  under  silent  and  shy  habits,  concealed 
strong  passions  ;  and  while  he  seemed  to  be  giving  all 
his  intellect  and  imagination  to  the  study  of  books,  he 
had  yielded  up  his  heart  to  violent  human  emotions.  He 
had  all  along  resolved,  within  his  own  heart,  that  Lucy 
Forester  should,  some  day,  be  his  wife  ;  and  the  flower 
was  growing,  he  thought,  in  its  solitude,  to  the  perfec- 
tion of  its  nature,  without  any  eye  but  his  capable  of  dis- 
cerning its  consummate  beauty.  Sometime,  during  the 
last  summer,  he  had  looked  on  Edward  Ellis  with  a  jeal- 
ous eye  ;  and  now  that  he  had  left  Edinburgh  for  a  single 
holiday,  he  came  upon  him  standing  almost  in  an  em- 
brace with  his  own  Lucy  Forester.  Pride  —  rage  — 
shame  —  jealousy —  and  grief —  all  entered  his  heart  to- 
gether ;  and,  mere  boy  as  he  was —  indeed  what  else  were 
they  all  but  children  —  the  same  pangs  rent  his  breast  as 
ever  drove  manhood  into  insanity  or  death.  His  pale 
cheek  became  sallow  —  his  dark  eyes  flashed  fire  —  he 
thrust  his  hand  fiercely  through  his  raven  locks,  and  his 
frame,  that  had  been  feeble  from  his  infancy,  shook  as  in 
a  slight  convulsion.  He  scarcely  spoke,  but  passed  by 
frowning  and  sullen,  and  disappeared  down  the  narrow 
pass,  as  if  on  his  way  to  the  Manse.  Lucy  wondered  a 
little  at  his  abrupt  manner;  but  said,  that  poor  Isaac 
Mayne  was  ruining  his  health  and  spirits  by  too  deep 
study.  Edward  Ellis  saw  the  truth,  and,  with  the  pride 
of  a  successful  rival,  laughed  at  the  rude  scholar,  and 
said  —  "I  hope  Isaac  will  not  drown  himself  for  love." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"  Come,  Lucy,"  said  Aunt  Isobel,  "  lay  down  your 
knitting,  and  give  us  a  lilt,  my  lassie  —  any  air  you  like; 
for  your  father  seems  drowsy,  I  think  —  your  mother  has 
not  said  a  single  word  for  at  least  ten  minutes  —  yourself 


THE   FORESTERS.  103 

have  been  mute  as  an  image  ever  since  you  took  that  net 
into  your  hand  —  and  not  a  soul  can  I  get  to  converse 
with  me.  This  is  dull,  dreary  work  ;  and  that  perpetual 
drive  of  Washing  sleet  against  the  panes  is  enough  to 
deafen  one's  very  life.  Come,  my  bonnie  bird,  gie  us 
something  heartsome." 

It  was  a  genuine  Scottish  March  night,  wild  as  in  win- 
ter. There  had  been  a  keen  frost  all  day,  and  the  wind 
had  almost  amounted  to  a  hurricane.  It  had,  with  the 
fall  of  darkness,  become  more  fitful ;  and,  there  being  a 
sort  of  thaw,  a  thin,  wet  snow  shower  had,  for  hours, 
been  whirling  about  the  glens.  Only  the  week  before, 
and  there  had  been  many  gentle  appearances  of  spring. 
The  gooseberry  bushes  were  green  in  all  the  gardens  — 
the  hawthorn  hedges  had  begun  to  bud  —  here  and  there 
the  early  willows  had  put  out  a  few  yellow  blossoms  to 
the  chance  bee  —  the  forenoon  sun  had  wakened  the  in- 
sect world  —  and  the  angler  had  been  seen  walking  down 
the  stream.  But  now  the  waters  were  again  sheeted  with 
ice  —  both  rivulet  and  tarn  ;  and  the  pale  aspect  of  the 
skies  had  foretold  that  the  shepherds  would  soon  have 
work  to  do  up  among  the  hills.  The  noise  without  doors 
had  made  all  silent  within;  but  Lucy,  always  ready  to 
waken  from  her  short  reveries,  dropped  her  knitting  at 
Aunt  Isobel's  request,  and,  laying  her  folded  hands  on 
her  lap,  and  fixing  her  large  soft  hazel  eyes  on  the  floor, 
with  her  head  and  all  its  clustering  ringlets  tenderly  in- 
clined towards  her  father,  who  roused  himself  from  his 
half  slumber,  and  turned  his  face  upon  his  child,  smiling 
even  as  if  he  really  saw  her  beauty  brightening  in  the 
blaze  of  the  kindled  fire,  she  hummed  a  few  low,  sweet, 
uncertain  notes,  and  then,  richly  and  simply  as  the  gray 
linnet,  warbled  one  of  her  father's  favorite  ballads,  the 
"  Gaberlunzie  Man  "  — 

"  The  wind  blaws  cauld  from  Donought  Head." 

The  small  audience  sat  mute  for  a  few  moments  at  the 
close  of  the  air,  and  Lucy  had  again  taken  up  her  work, 
when  Michael  said  —  "I  hear  a  foot  at  the  door  —  no 


104  THE    FORESTERS. 

Gaberlunzie  man,  I  warrant ;  for,  now-a-days,  they  keep 
better  under  cover  on  wild  nights,  and  the  beggar  takes 
his  supper  comfortably  by  the  ingle  in  the  small  wayside 
public  house,  if  no  cottar  has  taken  him  in.  It  will  be 
one  of  the  Raeshaw  shepherds  that  have  been  down  at 
the  fords  looking  after  the  early  lambs.  Has  he  gone  by 
without  stepping  in  ?  No;  that's  a  stranger's  rap,  and 
it  sounds  as  from  a  feeble  hand."  Lucy  sprang  from  her 
stool  by  her  father's  knees,  but  Aunt  Isobel  was  before 
her.  "  Stand  out  o'  the  drift  o'  the  door,  ye  delicate 
thing ;"  and  then  she  opened  the  door  but  a  little,  for  the 
blast  came  down  the  glen  in  a  very  tempest.  "  Pity  me, 
who  are  you  that  faces  such  a  hurricane?  Come  in  — 
come  in ;"  and  a  figure  in  a  tattered  dress,  covered  with 
cranreuch  and  icicles,  but  in  no  haste  to  enter,  came  at 
last  reluctantly  forward  on  the  floor ;  while  Aunt  Isobel 
shut  the  door  against  the  snow  that  had  been  drifting  into 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  muttered  a  i'ew  indistinct 
words  to  Isobel's  reiterated  questions,  who  and  what  he 
was ;  and  seemed  as  if  he  was  not  altogether  in  his  right 
mind  —  although,  perhaps,  it  was  only  the  inclemency  of 
the  night  that  had  benumbed  his  senses. 

But  Michael,  the  blind  man,  whose  ear  was  finer  than 
the  mole's,  rose  from  his  chair  and  advanced  towards  the 
stranger.  "What!  are  you  an  auld  man,  said  ye  ?  "  — 
"  Aulder  in  sin  and  iniquity  than  in  years."  —  "  It  is  my 
brother  Abel  —  as  God  liveth  and  dealeth  mercifully  —  it 
is  my  brother  Abel."  The  staff  fell  from  the  frozen  hand, 
and  Abel  was  upon  his  brother's  bosom.  Agnes  and 
Isobel  gazed  upon  the  wretched  man,  but  for  a  while  they 
recognised  him  not  —  that  ghost-like  being  could  not  be 
the  laughing  and  blithe  Abel  of  Dovenest!  But  Michael 
feared  not  that  it  was  his  brother  whom  he  held  to  his 
heart  —  for  faint,  broken,  and  feeble  as  that  voice  sound- 
ed, it  was  still  the  same  voice  that  he  had  heard  for  so 
many  years  in  that  quiet  garden.  Lucy,  who  now  and 
then  had  heard  her  uncle's  name,  but  pronounced  as  the 
name  of  one  assuredly  in  his  grave,  looked  on  the  figure 
before  her  almost  with  fear,  like  one  risen  from  the  dead ; 
but,  as  she  touched  his  withered  hand,  cold  as  the  ice, 


THE    FORESTERS.  105 

love  and  pity  arose  within  her  for  her  father's  brother. 
Never  before  had  Lucy  seen  her  father  weep ;  and  in  his 
tears  there  was  sometiiing  so  awful  to  her  young  heart, 
that  she  shed  none  herself,  but  stood  in  perfect  silence,  a 
little  aloof  from  that  meeting. 

They  now  saw  through  his  utter  wretchedness  all  that 
remained  of  the  Abel  of  other  happy  days.  Though  he 
was  cold  to  the  touch,  and  quite  frozen,  yet  he  never 
shivered.  His  body  was  forgotten  by  him;  and  his  mind, 
that  mind  once  so  quick  and  bright,  so  full  of  fancies  for 
the  young  and  feelings  for  the  old,  overflowing  with  re- 
sources for  every  season,  it  was  now  manifestly  worn  out, 
impaired,  and  shattered.  He  scarcely  returned  his  broth- 
er's embrace :  his  eyes  looked  around  bewildered  and 
mistrustful;  and  he  said  —  "Are  not  you  Michael  For- 
ester, that  lived  once  at  Dovenest  ?  If  so,  then  hear  me, 
Michael ;  for  I  am  your  brother  Abel,  who  ruined  you  all 
by  forgery ;  yet  turn  me  not  out  of  your  door  till  the 
storm  is  over.  Where  is  the  old  man,  our  father;  for  I 
see  him  not,  and  perhaps  he  is  dead  1 " 

A  bed  was  soon  made  by  the  fireside,  and  the  wander- 
er's head  was  on  the  pillow.  Long  had  it  been,  no  doubt, 
since  the  squalid  beggar  had  lain  on  such  a  place  of  rest. 
Many  years  were  at  last  over  of  houseless  want  that  now 
had  no  record  even  in  his  own  darkened  memory.  But 
there  he  now  lay  apparently  in  peace,  with  the  snow 
white  sheets  carefully  folded  round  him,  that  had  been 
woven  from  their  own  few  flax  ridges,  and  spun  by  old 
and  young  hands  in  the  long  merry  winter  nights,  when, 
alas  !  Abel  was  wandering  far  oflT  and  unknown!  Four- 
teen years  and  more  had  passed  since  he  had  parted  from 
them,  in  fear  and  danger,  at  Dovenest.  And  who,  thought 
Michael,  can  count  the  agonies,  the  diseases,  and  the 
despair  of  all  the  hours,  days,  weeks,  and  months,  that 
crowd  themselves  into  so  many  unbefriended  and  home- 
less years  ? 

"O  Michael!  what  means  that  look  about  your  eyes? 
What  is  it  that  I  heard  about  you  at  a  house  near  the 
mouth  of  the  glen?"  —  "I  lost  my  sight  by  lightning 
four  years  ago,  brother ;  but  I  feel  small  loss  of  my  eyes 


106  THE    FORESTERS. 

now  —  yet  would  that  for  a  little  while  I  could  see  my 
Abel's  face  once  more."  Remembrances  of  old  times 
now  seemed  to  be  crowding  in  upon  his  mind,  but  every 
word  he  spoke  shewed  how  indistinct  and  confused  they 
all  were  ;  while,  of  what  he  saw,  or  of  anything  connected 
with  the  present  condition  of  the  family,  he  asked  not  a 
single  question,  just  as  if  his  powerless  understanding 
had  submitted  itself  entirely  to  a  dream.  Much  they 
wondered  how  he  had  found  his  way  hither  —  where  he 
had  heard  of  theui  —  and,  above  all,  from  what  region 
had  the  wanderer  come.  Some  instinct  seemed  to  have 
led  him,  unawares,  to  Bracken  Braes;  for  it  was  plain, 
from  his  wandering  looks  and  unconnected  words,  that 
Abel  knew  not,  for  any  continued  length  of  time,  in  what 
quarter  of  the  world  he  now  was,  nor  whose  fireside  it 
was  at  which  Providence  had  given  him  that  bed  of  rest. 
Perhaps  there  had  been  times,  when  anger  had  entered 
into  Michael's  heart,  thinking  on  all  the  ruin  which  his 
brother  had  brought  upon  him  —  times  too,  when  all  an- 
ger had  utterly  ceased  —  when  he  had  not  only  reconcil- 
ed himself  to  the  belief  of  Abel's  death,  but  felt  that  it 
was  better  so,  and  that  he  did  not  even  wish  that  he  were 
in  the  land  of  the  living.  Then  had  come  years  almost 
of  forgetfulness,  and  the  blank  of  oblivion.  Michael  had 
never  ceased,  not,  perhaps,  even  for  a  week,  to  think  of 
Dovenest,  and  his  father,  and  his  brother.  But  that  was 
the  real  living,  innocent,  and  happy  Abel ;  the  brother  of 
these  latter  years  was  nothing  else  but  the  image  of  a  dim 
and  disturbed  dream.  But  now,  from  lands,  perhaps, 
beyond  the  seas,  and  at  the  expiration  of  so  many  years 
of  rueful  banishment,  had  come  the  brother,  whom  he 
had  so  tenderly  loved,  to  all  appearance  a  dying  man. 
Well  was  it  for  Michael  that  he  did  not  see  his  brother; 
for,  although  yet  a  young  man,  his  hair  was  quite  gray, 
and  all  his  features  shrunk  and  fallen,  like  the  face  of  old 
age.  That  voice  told  a  mournful  tale  to  the  blind  man's 
heart;  but  still  he  could  not  image  before  him  such  a 
sight  as  Agnes,  Tsobel,  and  Lucy  now  beheld  lying  on 
that  bed.     He  thought  of  Abel,  changed,  wearied,   and 


THE    FORESTERS.  107 

worn  ;  but  they  saw  the  very  ghost  of  Abel,  swathed,  as 
it  might  seem,  in  its  winding  sheet. 

Abel  refused  all  sustenance,  and  lay,  almost  without 
speaking  a  word,  quite  motionless  on  the  bed.  But 
warmth  and  rest  were  sustenance  to  him,  and  sleep  was 
coming  to  his  aid.  The  psalm  was  sung  in  a  lower  key, 
not  to  disturb  him  ;  but  he  was  yet  awake  ;  and  the  voice 
of  Lucy,  like  that  of  an  angel  from  heaven,  was  singing 
to  his  ear  forgiveness  and  peace.  Laden  with  guilt,  as 
was  the  wretched  man,  yet  in  our  Father's  house  there 
are  many  mansions,  all  of  them  happier  and  more  blessed 
than  the  most  untroubled  recesses  of  any  earthly  house- 
hold. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

All  anger,  grief,  hope,  and  despair,  regarding  his 
brother  Abel,  had  long  passed  away  from  the  heart  of 
Michael  Forester.  And  now,  after  fourteen  years'  ab- 
sence, which  had  been  looked  on  as  the  separation  of  the 
grave,  the  two  brothers,  who  had  always  loved  one  ano- 
ther so  well,  slept  with  only  a  thin  partition  between  their 
beds.  Michael  could  hear  his  brother's  disturbed  breath 
during  midnight.  They  sat  again  at  the  same  board; 
but  Abel's  mirth  and  merriment  had  long  been  at  an  end  ; 
he  scarcely  ever  opened  his  lips.  Ingenious  had  he  been 
with  his  cunning  hands  at  all  manner  of  work,  out  or  in 
doors,  making  his  very  amusements  contribute  to  his  toil ; 
and  then,  in  hours  of  perfect  leisure,  no  musical  instru- 
ment had  ever  come  wrong  to  him ;  he  made  them  all 
discourse,  and  acquired  skill  was  put  to  shame  by  native 
genius.  But  all  tliese  accomplishments,  that  had  enlivened 
Dovenest  for  so  many  years,  had  long  deserted  their  mas- 
ter;  the  very  remembrance  of  them  no  more  abided  in 
his  brain ;  all  was  weakened  in  his  mind,  or  utterly  de- 
cayed;  and  it  was  plain  to  every  one,  thai  if  Abel  sur- 


108  THE   FORESTERS. 

vived,  nothing  could  restore  the  powers  of  his  memory 
and  intellect.  But  let  Providence  spare  him  even  thus, 
and  an  asylum  was  prepared  for  him  in  his  brother's  house 
at  Bracken  Braes. 

During  the  whole  of  April,  and  on  towards  the  middle 
of  May,  Abel  lost  and  regained  strength  of  body  every 
twenty-four  hours.  "  Had  he  come  a  year  earlier  to 
us,"  often  said  Michael,  "  we  could  have  saved  his  life." 
Nature  within  him  struggled  to  survive,  for  the  heart  and 
the  mind  of  the  unfortunate  man  felt  the  change  that  had 
come  over  him,  and  would  fain  have  remained  among  so 
many  images  of  peace  and  repose,  after  such  weary  and 
rueful  wanderings.  Sometimes,  now  decently  and  com- 
fortably clothed,  he  wandered  by  himself  into  the  fields, 
with  eyes  still  watching  him,  and  sitting  down  on  some 
sunny  bank,  remained  for  hours  motionless,  like  a  shep- 
herd watching  his  flock.  When  in  the  warm  afternoons 
the  family  took  their  meal  beneath  the  plane  tree,  there 
Abel  was  seated  among  the  rest ;  and,  to  a  stranger's 
eye,  his  face  betokened  nothing  distressing,  nothing  but 
a  placid  melancholy,  for  the  features  were  still  remarka- 
bly handsome,  and  preserved  an  expression  of  intelligence 
which  was  no  longer  within  the  mind.  More  than  once 
since  May-day,  on  which  there  had  been  a  small  festival, 
he  had  been  observed  to  weep ;  and  Agnes  thought  that 
„a  good  symptom,  for  the  tears  seemed  to  flow  on  account 
of  something  that  was  fast  coming  more  distinctly  into 
his  memory.  And  true  it  was,  that  Abel's  mind  gradually 
became  less  and  less  obscure.  But  as  his  faculties  grew 
stronger,  his  bodily  frame  grew  weaker  and  weaker  ;  and 
finally,  he  asked  leave  to  remain  in  his  bed,  saying,  that 
he  had  heard  a  voice  calling  upon  him  from  the  other 
world,  and  that  he  wished  to  prepare  himself  for  de- 
parture. 

When  it  was  seen  that  the  bed  on  which  Abel  lay  was 
soon  to  be  a  death-bed,  there  was  not  around  it  much 
outward  demonstration  of  grief.  It  even  seemed  best 
that  it  should  be  so,  for  he  had  run  his  race,  and  sorely 
wearied  indeed  was  he,  now  that  he  had  reached  the  goal. 
Little  —  nothing  could  be  done  by  skill  —  every  thing  he 


THE    FOKESTERS.  109 

desired  by  affection.  The  neighbors  knew  his  state,  and 
came  no  farther  than  the  door.  Mr.  Kennedy  alone 
crossed  the  threshold.  Abel  lingered  in  this  way,  suffer- 
ing no  sort  of  pain,  but  smitten  motionless  for  several 
days,  during  which  Michael  never  left  his  bedside.  He 
gathered  up  each  sentence — each  word  that  the  dying 
man  articulated  often  at  long  intervals  —  and  bound  them 
together  into  affecting  meanings.  Both  brothers  were 
grateful  to  God  for  the  wonderfid  restoration  of  Abel  to 
his  sound  mind.  It  was  impossible  for  any  mortal  man 
to  be  more  truly  penitent  and  contrite  ;  and  seeing  around 
him  nothing  but  countenances  full  of  love  and  forgive- 
ness, he  could  not  but  believe  in  the  mercy  of  his  Maker. 
All  his  knowledge  of  the  Bible  revived  with  his  restored 
power  of  memory;  and  he  was  told,  that,  great  as  had 
been  his  sins,  he  might  hope  for  the  salvation  Heaven 
offered  to  all  believers.  He  seemed  to  hold  his  eyes 
fixed  for  a  long  time  on  Lucy,  and  then  life  left  his  lips  so 
quietly,  that  it  was  not  till  his  brother  lifted  up  his  hand 
that  they  perceived  Abel  was  among  them  no  longer. 
The  silence  of  the  house  was  rather  more  hushed  than 
before  —  that  was  all  —  and  they  who  had  loved  him  .so 
well,  dried  up  their  tears.  Abel  had  been  in  foreign 
countries,  and  driven  about  the  wide  world  by  land  and  sea. 
They  buried  him  in  a  quiet  nook  of  the  kirkyard  of  Holy- 
lee;  and,  before  the  next  Sabbath,  there  was  a  stone  at 
his  head  inscribed  with  his  name  and  age.  Rumors  there 
had  perhaps  been  among  the  firesides  about  the  character 
of  the  dead  man  ;  but  fifteen  years  bring  oblivion  even  of 
great  deeds  and  noble  triumphs  ;  and,  except  his  own 
family,  there  was  not  one  at  Abel  Forester's  funeral  who 
knew  what  he  had  either  done  or  suffered. 


10 


110  THE    l-OIltbTERS. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

In  Jihout  :i  wru^k  aflor  tlic  f"iiiif;r;il,  Michael  received  n 
letter  iroin  I'liii^l.iiid,  llie  contents  of  which  he  iniiric<]i- 
ately  cornrrninicated  to  the  liiinily.  Abel  liad  told  him, 
a  lew  days  before  liis  deatli,  tliat  lie  had  joined  his  wife, 
Julia  Mau.sell,  at  Ambleside,  soon  after  he  had  left  Dove- 
uest;  that  she  had  died  there  in  childbed  ;  and  that  Jie, 
alarmed  by  the  hue  and  cry  that  had  pursued  him  even 
to  that  retired  village,  had  fled  to  Liverpool,  whence  he 
had  escaped  as  a  soldier  in  a  transport  then  sailing  for 
the  West  Indies.  'J'his  child,  of  whom  he  had  never 
since  heard,  he  left  a  hw  days  old  in  the  Poor  House. 
Michael  Forester  had  written  to  Mr.  Colinson,  the  vicar 
of  I'illesmere,  whom  Mr.  Kennedy  slightly  knew,  iiujuiring 
if  anything  could  be  heard  of  such  an  infant;  and  he  had 
now  received  an  answer,  that  "  Scotch  Martha,"  as  she 
had  been  always  called,  was  living,  and  servant  to  a  cot- 
ter in  his  parish. 

Nothing  was  ever  done  hastily,  or  without  due  pre- 
meditation, at  Ijracken  Braes.  Some  cc)mmunication, 
however,  there  must  be  made,  and  that  right  speedily, 
with  this  orphan  girl.  As  the  servant  of  a  small  cotter 
in  the  north  of  England,  no  doubt,  "Scotch  Martha" 
might  very  probably  be,  and  continue  to  be  very  happy; 
but  it  was  Micliael  Forester's  duty,  and  his  strong  desire 
too,  to  know  exactly  the  condition  and  character  of  his 
new  found  niece,  and  then  to  judge  what  ought  to  be 
done  for  her  in  future.  What  is  there,  thought  Michael 
within  himself,  to  prevent  me  from  going  to  Ellesmere, 
and  ascertaining  y)recisely  from  Mr.  Colinson,  the  vicar, 
what  is  my  line  of  duty  on  this  occasion.  'J'he  resolution 
was  no  sooner  suggested  than  formed.  "  I  will  take 
Agnes  with  me,"  exultingly  said  the  blind  husband  aloud, 
"  and  see  if,  in  all  the  houses  of  Westmoreland,  Lanca- 
sliire,  or  Cundjerland,  be  they  the  houses  of  cotter,  tenant, 
statesman,  vicar,  or  esquire,  there  be  any  maid,  wife,  or 
widow  to  be  compared  with  my  own  Agnes  Hay." 


THE    FORESTERS.  Ill 

When  this  plan  was  first  laid  before  Aunt  Isobel,  she 
declared,  most  explicitly,  that  both  Michael  Forester  and 
Agnes  Hay  were  mad,  and  that  such  would  be  the  opinion 
of  the  whole  parish,  if  they  were  seen  carrying  it  into 
effect.  "  You  without  your  sight,  my  dear  Michael,  and 
my  daughter  there,  delicate  as  a  house  lamb,  to  think  of 
venturing  by  yourselves  away  into  the  woods,  and  lakes, 
and  mountains,  and  wildernesses  of  a  strange  land ! 
Order  the  lassie  to  come  down  here  to  Bracken  Braes. 
Are  not  you  her  uncle,  and  has  not  the  power  of  her  dead 
father  devolved  into  your  hands  ?  Order  Scotch  Martha 
down."  But,  ere  long.  Aunt  Isobel  began  to  see  the 
matter  in  a  somewhat  different  light,  and  to  speak  with 
less  decision.  "  Why,  my  dear  Aunt,"  said  Michael, 
"  would  you  grudge  Agnes  Hay  one  single  marriage 
jaunt  in  fifteen  years  ?  I  took  her  with  me,  on  our  mar- 
riage day  from  Sprinkeld  to  Dovenest  —  not  a  quarter  of 
a  mile,  as  you  know  —  and  from  Dovenest  I  brought  her 
to  Bracken  Braes,  not  very  unlike  a  soldier's  wife  on  a 
baggage-wagon  —  not  above  three  or  four  times  has  my 
Agnes  been  as  far  as  Lasswade  to  see  her  old  friends 
there,  for  they  have  been  good  enough  to  visit  me  here  — 
and  you  know  how  she  has  remained  like  a  shadow  by 
my  side  since  that  day  in  the  Hirst  Wood.  Well,  then, 
do  you  grudge  her  a  jaunt  to  the  land  of  the  English 
lakes,  which  people  say  are  so  beautiful,  and  of  which 
Agnes  Hay  has  a  soul  to  see  the  beauty  —  ay,  to  see  it 
and  feel  it  too,  although  she  may  use  but  few  words,  and 
these  of  a  calm  kind?"  —  "But,  pity  me,  Michael,  it's 
a  long,  long  journey,  my  son  ;  and  are  you  sure  our  Agnes 
is  able  to  bear  it?  If  you  think  so,  and  if  you  will  both 
be  happy  travelling  together  into  merry  England,  then, 
Michael,  all  I  say  is,  go  —  go,  and  God  be  with  you  till 
you  come  back  to  Bracken  Braes." 

Preparations  were  busily  set  a-going  for  their  depar- 
ture. Lucy  had,  at  first,  longed  to  accompany  her  parents 
into  England.  To  the  imagination  of  one  wiio  had  never 
been  more  than  eight  or  ten  miles  from  home,  that  long 
travel  seemed  like  an  adventure  in  a  tale.  Fain  would 
she  have  flown  away  from  Bracken  Braes,  to  that  far  off 


112  THE    FOKESTF.KS. 

country,  on  the  wings  of  youth  and  joy,  to  return  again, 
ere  long,  like  a  bird  that,  at  evening,  conies  back  i'rom 
the  cultivated  valley  to  its  moorland  nest.  But  neither 
her  father  nor  her  mother  had  said  a  word  about  taking 
her  with  them  ;  and  besides,  her  heart  told  her  that  she 
must  remain  with  Aunt  Isobel.  Reconciled,  therefore, 
without  one  murmuring  thought,  to  what  could  not  well  be 
called  a  disappointment,  Lucy  set  herself,  with  all  her 
heart  and  soul,  to  get  every  thing  ready  for  the  journey. 
Her  needle  had  no  rest  from  morning  till  night.  Up  with 
the  lark  was  Lucy,  and  never  down  till  after  the  night- 
hawk.  Aunt  Isobel  was  busier  than  any  bee  ;  while 
Agnes  herself,  who,  in  her  gentleness  and  composure, 
seemed  idle  to  unobserving  eyes,  sometimes  was  acknowl- 
edged, at  the  close  of  day,  to  have  put  through  her  quiet 
hands  fully  as  much  work  as  both  together.  For  Aunt 
Isobel's  fingers  were  but  feeble,  cheerful  as  was  the  old 
lady's  talk  ;  and  Lucy  was  off  her  seat  a  hundred  times 
a-day,  looking  for  that  which  was  not  lost,  undoing  or 
doing  over  again  what  was  already  done,  and,  in  the  con- 
fusion of  her  happiness,  making  progress  by  many  little 
circuitous  paths,  followed  because  they  seemed  to  be 
so  much  shorter,  so  that  sometimes  she  could  not  help 
laughing  at  her  own  mistakes,  and,  throwing  down  her 
work,  would  trip  out  into  the  sunshine,  and  observe 
whether  the  skies  looked  settled  for  fine  weather  during 
the  journey  to  England. 

Michael  Forester  had  held  several  consultations  with 
William  Laidlaw,  Mr.  Kennedy,  and  Jacob  Mayne,  on 
all  that  was  to  be  done  about  the  farm  during  his  absence. 
For,  even  to  Michael,  the  prospect  of  being  away  perhaps 
a  fortnight,  or  three  weeks,  was  accompanied  with  some 
little  anxiety.  He  had  always  considered  himself  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  ail  their  ongoings  about  Bracken 
Braes.  The  very  crops  he  almost  feared  would  not  grow 
after  his  departure  ;  and  he  thought  the  sheep  and  lambs 
on  the  hill  side  would  miss  the  blind  man  who  used  to 
walk  quietly  amongst  them  with  his  staff.  But  all  these 
iinportant  arrangements  were  made;  all  orders,  oral  or 
written,  delivered  and  understood  ;  and  now,  by  sunrise, 


THE    FORESTERS,  113 

on  a  beautiful  June  morning,  Mr.  Kennedy's  taxed  cart 
was  at  the  door,  drawn  too  by  his  strong  sober  steed,  and 
driven  by  Alexander  Ainslie,  one  of  the  sons  of  the  sol- 
dier's widow  —  an  urchin  who  had  been  about  horses 
from  tlie  time  he  could  crawl,  and  although  only  fifteen, 
nevertheless  an  expert  and  cautious  Jehu. 

Lucy  and  Aunt  Isobel  accompanied  the  travellers  to 
the  very  end  of  their  own  valley.  As  they  passed  the 
Manse,  there  were  Mr.  and  Miss  Kennedy  to  wish  them, 
for  the  twentieth  and  last  time,  a  happy  parting  and  re- 
turn ;  while  the  latter  handed  up  to  Agnes  a  basket  full 
of  choice  viands,  lest  provisions  should  be  scarce  in  the 
barren  parts  of  England,  through  which  she  understood 
they  were  to  pass  ;  and  Edward  Ellis,  who  was  going  to 
angle,  as  he  said,  at  any  rate,  down  the  stream,  leapt  up 
into  the  vehicle  beside  Lucy ;  and  away  drove  Alexander 
the  Great  in  his  pride,  amidst  many  gazing  villagers.  At 
Broomyside  toll  there  was  a  parting,  with  a  few  tears  and 
many  smiles  ;  Michael,  Agnes,  and  Alexander,  to  distant 
Ambleside;  Aunt  Isobel,  Lucy,  and  Edward  Ellis,  to 
near  Bracken  Braes. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Not  a  single  adventure  befell  the  humble  travellers  all 
the  way  from  Bracken  Braes  to  EUesmere.  The  country 
through  which  they  passed  had  not  much  beauty  of  any 
kind  to  boast  of;  yet  Agnes,  seated  by  the  side  of  her 
husband,  thought  it  often  exceedingly  beautiful,  and  de- 
scribed to  him  all  she  saw  with  affectionate  animation. 
Michael  Forester  had,  more  than  once,  been  in  the  north 
of  England,  and  a  few  words  from  Agnes  made  him  un- 
derstand clearly  where  he  was  between  stage  and  stage. 
He  often  turned  his  face  towards  the  different  scenes,  in 
the  vividness  of  recollection,  and  seemed  just  as  much  as 
10* 


114  THE    FORESTERS. 

Agnes  to  enjoy  the  calm  bright  weather  of  June.  There 
were  several  friends'  houses  by  the  way,  where  they  re- 
ceived all  due  hospitality  ;  and,  after  crossing  the  Border, 
the  neat  wayside  inn,  with  its  front  white  as  snow,  and 
sign  hancritig,  perhaps,  from  the  branch  of  an  old  elm  tree, 
that  stood  in  the  circle  before  the  porch,  was  cheerfully 
entered  at  the  close  of  evening,  and  found  to  exhibit  in 
its  interior  almost  all  the  comfort,  quietness,  and  regular- 
ity of  a  private  dwelling.  The  equipage  of  our  Scottish 
travellers  was  far  from  contemptible,  to  say  nothing  of 
their  own  appearance,  which  was  such  as  to  ensure  re- 
spect everywhere ;  while  their  driver  became  more  dex- 
terous and  dignified  as  they  advanced  into  England  ;  and 
would  fain,  on  various  occasions,  have  entered  into  com- 
petition with  gigs  and  post  chaises,  which  he  could  not 
see  splashing  by,  without  a  flourish  of  his  whip,  betoken- 
ing a  sense  of  conscious  superiority,  were  he  to  put 
Sampson  on  his  mettle.  The  object  of  their  journey 
was  a  right  pleasant  one,  and  they  had  left  their  home 
strong  in  its  guarded  innocence  ;  so  that  there  was  some- 
thing delightful  to  them  both,  thus  to  be  at  a  distance 
from  it,  and  their  spirits  rose  almost  to  the  level  of  those 
more  youthful  emotions  of  happiness  that  they  had  expe- 
rienced at[Dovenest,  when  not  a  cloud  had  passed  over 
their  wedded  life,  and  when  every  sunrise  had  brought  a 
new  day  of  brighter  or  deeper  enjoyment. 

"  Oh,  beautiful  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Agnes,  moved 
beyond  her  ordinary  composure;  "most  beautiful!" 
when,  from  the  hill  of  Orresthead,  she  beheld  Winder- 
mere, and  all  her  sylvan  isles,  lying,  without  one  breath 
of  air,  beneath  the  sunlight  and  the  blue  marble  firma- 
ment! What  a  depth  of  peace  in  that  resplendent  water  ! 
What  quiet  pastures  encircling  the  small  retired  bays  ! 
Never  before  had  her  eyes  fallen  on  such,  verdure  as 
crowned  these  hanging  groves,  and  woods  that  seemed  to 
cover  the  hills  even  to  their  very  summits  !  The  houses, 
too,  how  sweetly  hidden  in  hollows,  or  revealed  on  emi- 
nences rising  over  the  little  valleys,  with  here  and  there 
an  old  noble  tree  flinging  a  wide  shadow  over  the  open 
ground  that  lay  covered  with  sunshine;   all,  apparently, 


THE    FOUESTERS.  115 

the  dwellings  of  comfort  and  independence.  Agnes  then 
thought  of  Bracken  Braes,  and  its  solitary  pastoral  val- 
ley, where  she  knew  almost  every  single  bush,  and  every 
linn  that  mtirnuired  over  its  shelving  rocks  —  the  few 
houses  too,  front  Raeshaw  down  to  the  Manse.  Plolylee 
seemed  to  be  a  reality  —  the  scene  before  her  a  vision 
and  a  dream.  But  now  a  beautiful  girl,  about  Lucy's 
age,  passed  by  with  a  cheerful  salutation,  and  the  heart 
of  Agnes  leaped  within  her;  for  she  knew  that,  at  this 
very  hour,  Lucy  and  Isobel  were  sitting,  according  to 
their  tryst,  under  the  plane  tree. 

Michael  Forester  had  long  been  perfectly  happy  in  his 
blindness,  and  no  more  wished  that  he  could  see,  than 
any  other  person  wished  to  discern  objects  beyond  the 
horizon ;  while  Agnes,  knowing  his  complete  resignation, 
seldom  or  never  felt  very  unhappy  now  for  his  sake.  But, 
as  they  proceeded  along  the  banks  of  Windermere,  she 
could  not  help  shedding  a  few  tears  for  her  husband. 
The  beauty  was  of  such  a  delightful  kind,  that  as  it  en- 
tered into  her  spirit,  she  wept  to  know  that  it  existed  not 
for  her  Michael.  Why  should  she  gaze  on  that  heavenly 
region  in  selfish  and  unpartaken  delight?  But  her  hus- 
band turned  towards  her  with  a  smile  and  said  —  "Tell 
me  when  the  lake  is  hidden  by  a  wood,  not  unlike  the 
Hirst,  and  with,  here  and  there,  a  grove  of  larches,  now, 
doubtless,  grown  into  good  trees  since  I  saw  them  plant- 
ed twenty  years  ago  ;  for  that  is  Calgarth,  the  abode  of 
Watson,  the  defender  of  Christianity  against  the  Infidel, 
and  a  name,  therefore,  venerated  by  the  firesides  over  all 
our  own  Scotland.  Humble  people,  like  us,  my  Agnes, 
who  pass  by  his  gates,  may  well  give  a  blessing  on  his 
venerable  head,  for  he  has  secured  to  many  a  poor  man 
his  belief  in  his  Bible,  and  that  is  bestowing  charity  on 
the  human  race."  Agnes  wiped  away  the  idle  and  tran- 
sient tear ;  for  what  mattered  it  that  woods,  rocks,  and 
lakes  were  all  veiled  from  her  husband's  eyes,  since,  at  all 
times,  his  soul  could  commune  with  solemn  or  cheerful 
thoughts  ;  and,  although  deprived  of  the  sight  of  men's 
earthly  habitations,  knew  how  to  meditate  on  their  im- 
mortal destinies ! 


116  THE    FORESTERS. 

As  their  journey  was  drawing  near  a  close,  Michael 
and  Agnes  began  to  feel  a  stronger  interest  in  its  object, 
and  to  converse  earnestly  about  their  orphan  niece,  to 
whom  they  were  about  to  become  parents.  In  that  con- 
versation, even  Windermere  had  entirely  escaped  the  no- 
tice of  Agnes,  and,  on  looking  towards  it  once  more,  it 
was  gone  ;  and  Alexander  Ainslie  had  dismounted  at  the 
foot  of  a  steep  rocky  hill,  up  which,  he  observed,  it  would 
be  prudent  for  them  all  to  walk.  On  descending  the 
other  side,  they  found  themselves  in  a  glen,  and  Agnes 
said  to  Michael  that  she  suspected  they  were  within  half 
a  mile  of  the  Vicarage  of  Ellesmere. 

The  party  from  Scotland  had  been  expected  at  the  Vi- 
carage the  night  before,  and  the  vicar  had  now  sauntered 
down  the  lane  with  his  daughter  Ruth,  somewhat  impa- 
tient for  their  arrival.  He  knew  their  character  from 
Mr.  Kennedy ;  but  now  that  he  beheld  them,  he  could 
not  help  being  struck  with  a  feeling,  even  stronger  than 
that  of  respect,  on  their  very  first  appearance.  There 
was  an  humble  dignity  in  the  demeanor  of  the  blind  man, 
that  almost  impressed  Mr.  Colinson  with  awe  ;  while  the 
beauty  of  his  wife,  which  was  no  way  impaired,  only 
softened  and  shaded  by  years,  and  the  perfectly  lady  like 
gentleness  of  her  manner,  came  upon  him  altogether  by 
surprise,  for  of  that  he  had  heard  nothing  from  the  good 
minister  of  Holylee.  Greetings  were  interchanged;  and, 
in  a  few  minutes,  Michael  Forester  and  Agnes  were  in- 
troduced in  due  form  to  Mrs.  Colinson,  and  seated  in  the 
Vicarage.  What  was  its  external  appearance  —  how 
many  windows  it  had  in  front —  whether  it  were  thatched 
or  slated  —  had  it  a  porch  or  no  porch  —  whether  it  were 
sheltered  by  trees,  or  gave  its  roof  to  the  sunshine  —  Ag- 
nes had  been  too  attentive  to  their  kind  host  to  observe; 
only  she  thought  there  were  high  hawthorn  hedges,  with 
hollies  intermixed  all  the  way  from  the  gate  to  the  house, 
and  that  she  had  seen,  close  at  hand,  an  enormous  tree, 
which,  from  its  barkless  and  involuted  trunk,  must  surely 
be  a  yew  of  many  centuries. 

The  best  preparation  had  been  made  for  mutual  regard 
between  those,  who,  in  a  very  few  hours,  felt  for  one  an- 


THE    FOEESTEKS. 


117 


other  what  may  well  be  called  friendship.  It  is  not  easy 
to  tell  what  qualities  of  conversation  are  most  winning  or 
impressive  iti  early  intercourse,  or  why  they  are  so  —  a 
few  sentences  often  giving  us  a  higiier  opinion  of  the 
speaker's  moral  and  intellectual  powers,  than  any  senti- 
ment contained  in  them  would  seem  altogether  to  justify; 
while  frequently  most  excellent  talk  fails  to  make  us  es- 
teem very  highly  the  person  exhibiting  himself,  and  leaves 
us  in  the  belief  of  his  being,  after  all,  but  an  ordinary, 
and  in  no  way  very  delightlul  character.  Long  before 
sunset,  all  hearts  within  the  Vicarage  were  touched  with 
the  kindest  impressions,  and  Michael  felt  proud  in  the 
conviction  that  his  Agnes  was  already  loved  and  admired 
by  the  whole  family.  Of  himself  he  did  not  think;  but 
Mr.  Colinson,  who  was  merely  a  sensible  and  good  man, 
without  any  pretensions  to  scholarship  or  talents,  was 
much  affected  by  the  blind  man's  superior  character,  and 
listened  with  more  than  respect  to  the  plain  eloquence  of 
his  speech,  for  it  deserved  no  other  name,  and  to  the 
strength  and  soundness  of  all  the  thoughts  that  came  from 
him,  with  that  easy  and  natural  flow  peculiar  to  minds 
familiarized  to  early  habits  of  reflection.  The  vicar  had 
a  son,  too,  just  arrived  from  Cambridge,  where  he  was  a 
student  of  two  years'  standing;  and  the  intelligent  and 
well  informed  youth  perceived  that,  even  in  his  own 
scholastic  acquirements,  he  might  not  be  greatly  superior 
to  this  Scottish  peasant.  But  this  was  not  Michael's 
thought,  for  he  lightly  esteemed  the  little  knowledge  he 
had  been  able  to  acquire  in  youth,  and  to  retain  without 
loss  in  his  blind  years;  and  he  doubted  not  that,  in  a  few 
days,  he  would  teceive  much  instruction  from  the  Cam- 
bridge scholar. 

Just  before  twilight,  "  Scotch  Martha,"  who  had  been 
sent  for  to  a  cottage  about  two  miles  distant,  came  to  the 
Vicarage.  Agnes  saw  in  a  moment  that  her  features 
bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  those  of  Abel.  The  great- 
est kindness  was  shewn  to  the  orphan,  but  there  was  no 
extravagant  display  of  feeling;  for  Martha  seemed  cheer- 
ful and  contented  enough  —  was  apparently  in  good  health 
—  and  did  not  exhibit  much  emotion  in  her  first  interview 


118  THE    FORESTERS. 

with  her  relations.  Her  manner,  however,  was  simple 
and  pretty  enough  as  she  dropped  Agnes  a  courtesy  —  a 
smile  was  in  her  eyes  that  shone  with  something  of  the 
same  keen  light  that  had  belonged  to  her  father's  —  and 
although  her  dialect  was  not  wholly  intelligible  at  first, 
either  to  Michael  or  Agnes,  yet  there  was  a  kindliness  in 
the  tone  of  her  voice  that  was  pleasant,  and  seemed  to 
bespeak  a  character  of  cheerfulness,  alacrity,  and  con- 
tentment. To  the  question,  if  she  thought  she  would 
like  to  go  to  Scotland,  Martha  answered  instantly,  with 
little  or  no  thought,  that  she  would  like  it  very  well  — 
for  the  young  creature  had  no  very  strong  or  tender  ties 
to  bind  her  to  her  present  place,  and  was  plainly  not  only 
willing,  but  eager  to  go  any  where,  however  far  off,  with 
those  who  addressed  her  so  affectionately,  and  whose  very 
appearance  assured  her,  inexperienced  and  ignorant  as 
she  was,  that  they  were  good  people.  Besides,  had  they 
not  come  from  a  distant  country  merely  to  see  her  —  a 
poor  orphan?  And  was  not  she  about  to  have  a  father 
and  a  mother  ? 

Never,  during  all  their  fifteen  years  of  wedded  life, 
had  Michael  Forester  and  his  Agnes  lain  down  to  rest 
more  perfectly  happy  than  they  did  this  night  at  the  Vi- 
carage of  Ellesmere. 


CHAPTER    XXH 

The  vicar  and  his  wife  soon  made  their  visiters  ac- 
quainted with  the  history  of  their  niece.  Poor  Scotch 
Martha  had  passed  the  first  eight  years  of  her  life  in  the 
Poor  House  of  Ambleside;  a  miserable  establishment  in- 
deed, where  little  attention  was  paid  either  to  the  bodily 
or  mental  wants  of  the  paupers,  and  where  idleness,  vice, 
and  disease  were  seen  in  their  most  squalid  and  loathsome 
union.    The  child  had  been  removed  from  all  this  wretch- 


THE    FORESTERS.  119 

edness  into  a  cotton  mill,  where  she  was  bound  an  ap- 
prentice;  but  tlie  bankruptcy  of  the  proprietor  liberated 
her,  along  with  many  other  pining  pale-faced  creatures, 
after  two  years'  imprisonment;  and  Scotch  Martha  then 
became  the  sole  servant  of  a  very  poor  couple,  carriers 
between  Ambleside  and  Hawkshead.  In  that  hard  but 
healthy  service  she  had  now  been  four  years,  with  very 
small  wages,  no  doubt,  and  scanty  fare  ;  yet  the  pure 
airs  of  heaven  had  been  constantly  blowing  about  her  ; 
and  the  orphan,  for  whom  few  or  none  greatly  cared, 
had,  notwitlistanding,  been  happy  in  the  quick  and  strong 
spirit  of  youth,  which  is  in  itself  happiness,  and  so  tena- 
cious of  life,  that  it  will  not  be  stifled  but  in  the  very 
grave.  To  have  been  reduced  to  such  a  condition  as  that 
of  poor  Martha,  would  have  broken  the  heart  of  many  a 
child;  but  Martha  had  never  known  a  better,  and  was 
reconciled  to  all  its  hardships  and  privations.  She  had 
been  always  accustomed  to  much  indifference  or  neglect, 
for  she  was  alone  in  the  little  world  in  which  she  lived  ; 
and  while  every  one  else  had  brothers,  or  sisters,  or  near 
relations,  Martha  had  none;  and  also  knew  indistinctly, 
although  without  pain,  that  there  was  meanness  or  shame 
in  her  birth.  Yet  nature  had  not  suffered  her  heart  to 
be  very  sorely  depressed.  Some  kind  attentions  she  met 
with  occasionally,  and  these  she  treasured  up  in  her 
memory  with  a  keenness  of  gratitude  proportioned  to  the 
rarity  of  their  occurrence,  often  repaying  the  slightest 
civilities  by  the  warmest  affection,  and  looking  on  those 
as  her  friends  who  had  only  perhaps  spoken  kindly  to 
the  orphan  on  the  road,  or  on  the  footpaths,  as  she  was 
bringing  fuel  frdin  the  wood  or  moss.  The  old  couple, 
in  whose  service  she  lived,  were  extremely  poor,  and 
wholly  uneducated.  Their  sole  endeavor  of  mind  and 
body,  in  this  world,  was  to  subsist.  They  were  by  no 
means  without  religion  ;  but  it  was  a  religion  received 
passively  —  its  usages  observed  decently  from  long  cus- 
tom, and  even  so  observed  not  without  a  blessing  —  while 
their  knowledge  of  the  Bible,  as  neither  of  them  could 
read,  was  imperfect  and  confused,  and  had  been,  previ- 
ous to  the  time  Martha  came  to  live  with  them,  acquired 


120  ''  THE    FORESTERS, 

entirely  from  the  church  service.  Martha  herself  had 
been  at  the  free  school  for  a  month  at  a  time,  now  and 
then,  when  she  could  be  spared  from  her  work  ;  but  her 
education  had  been  small  indeed,  and,  in  that  slavish 
condition,  there  was  no  time  for  reading  any  book.  Yet 
on  the  Sundays,  when  dressed  in  coarse  clean  garments, 
and  mingling  with  decent  people  at  church,  the  hard 
working  and  neglected  orphan,  no  doubt,  felt  something  of 
the  sacred  influence  of  Divine  worship  ;  and  every  month, 
as  she  was  growing  up  to  womanhood,  had  learned  un- 
consciously more  and  more  of  her  duly  to  her  Maker. 
The  misery  and  vice  which  her  eyes  had  been  made  to 
witness  during  too  long  a  childhood,  were  all  utterly  for- 
gotten ;  and  narrow  as  the  sphere  now  was  of  her  thoughts 
and  feelings,  Scotch  Martha  was  at  least  a  harmless  crea- 
ture, and,  under  such  tendance  as  she  was  now  about  to 
receive,  likely  enough  to  turn  out  an  amiable  and  intelli- 
gent young  woman. 

Michael  Forester  lost  no  time  in  settling  njatters  with 
the  cotter  in  whose  service  Martha  lived  ;  and  it  was 
agreed  that,  after  their  small  harvest,  which  would  be 
over  iti  a  week  or  so,  and  a  few  other  trifling  matters, 
she  should  accompany  her  relations  to  Scotland.  So 
Martha  continued,  without  any  unnecessary  visits  of  in- 
terruption, at  her  usual  toils,  the  severest  of  which  were 
now  light  in  the  foreknowledge  of  a  speedy  termination 
to  her  servitude.  She  was  already  quite  a  changed  crea- 
ture—  bolder  and  more  free  in  all  her  looks,  smiles,  and 
motions  —  the  chains  she  now  wore  galled  not  at  all,  for 
in  a  few  days  they  were  to  be  thrown  aside,  and  she 
herself  to  betaken  as  a  daughter  into  her  uncle's  family. 
Yet  long  habit  had  attached  her  even  to  that  severe  and 
solitary  life,  and  she  now  and  then  could  almost  have 
sighed  to  tliink  that  she  and  the  old  people  were  in  a 
few  days  to  part  probably  for  ever.  Cheerfulness  and 
joy,  however,  were  Martha's  chief  companions  now  — 
and  she  longed  to  be  in  Scotland,  of  which  she  had  read 
in  those  songs  and  ballads  that  spread  through  adjacent 
countries  a  certain  knowledge  of  each  other's  customs 
and  character,  and,  true  as  they  often  are  to  nature,  are 


THE    FORESTERS.  121 

felt  and  understood  among  all  the  varieties  and  differ- 
ences of  provincial  life.  It  was  soon  known  too  that 
Scotch  Martha  was  come  of  a  respectable  family;  and 
all  the  neighbors  round  were  pleased  that  so  industrious 
and  harmless  a  girl  should  have  been  so  providentially 
rescued  from  the  uncertain  evils  of  an  orphan  condition. 
Martha  had  not  many  leisure  hours  during  any  season, 
and  this  was  with  her,  perhaps,  the  busyest  time  of  all 
the  year.  Yet,  now  that  she  and  the  old  people  were  to 
part,  she  must  leave  them  a  few  keepsakes,  that  the  sight 
of  the  trifles  might  sometimes  recall  to  their  minds  her 
who  had  shared  their  poverty.  Out  of  her  "  sair  won 
penny  fee,"  she  purchased  a  few  articles  of  wearing  ap- 
parel, and  sat  up  an  hour  or  two  longer  after  her  work  to 
leave  them  fit  for  use  at  her  departure.  On  looking  back 
over  the  four  years  she  had  lived  in  their  hut,  nothing 
rose  to  her  recollection  but  their  small  kindnesses,  and 
her  own  most  cheerful  hours  —  their  anger,  or  neglect, 
or  severity,  were  all  forgotten.  They  were  both  too 
exceedingly  old  —  not  much  less  than  fourscore  —  and, 
perhaps,  their  next  servant  would  not  be  so  attentive  to 
them  as  she  had  been,  and  leave  more  hardships  on  their 
age.  Martha  knew  that  she  was  going  to  live  with  her 
own  relations,  and  could  want  nothing  ;  and,  therefore, 
besides  those  keepsakes,  she  determined  to  give  the  old 
people  back  her  last  half  year's  wages.  As  her  necessi- 
ties disappeared,  the  orphan  felt  her  nature  becoming 
every  day  more  kindly  ;  and  she  began  to  do  what  she 
had  never  done  before,  to  look  with  the  pleasure  of  hope 
into  the  years  yet  to  come,  and  to  feel  that  Providence, 
perhaps,  intended  her  for  a  life  of  happiness. 


II 


122  THE   FORESTERS. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

Michael  and  Agnes  were  now  positively  domesticated 
at  the  Vicarage.  They  had  become  perfectly  acquainted 
with  the  ways  of  the  family  ;  and  quiet,  regular,  indus- 
trious, and  not  inelegant  ways  they  were,  admirably 
adapted  to  preserve  that  competence  which  the  inmates 
knew  so  well  how  to  enjoy.  Agnes  described  to  her 
husband,  when  they  were  alone,  all  the  beauties  of  the 
habitation  ;  its  slate  roof,  with  so  many  irregularities, 
which  were  all  seen,  on  the  slightest  attention,  to  have 
each  a  meaning,  use,  and  character  of  its  own  ;  the  tall 
round  chimneys,  surmounted  with  the  blast-breaking 
slate  flags,  and  rising  up  almost  fantastically  through 
embowering  trees;  the  porch,  itself  a  parlor,  with  its 
niche  seats,  and  outwardly  overgrown  with  roses  and 
jessamines  ;  the  hollies  and  laurels,  glittering  among  the 
other  shrubs,  whose  beauty  lay  more  in  their  flowers  than 
leaves ;  the  smooth-shorn  circular  lawn  in  front,  with  its 
central  dial-stone;  that  prodigious  yew,  under  whose 
shadow  the  kine  were  milked;  the  stately  elm  grove, 
with  its  rookery  —  a  pleasant  din  ;  the  tops  of  woods, 
seen  in  the  distance,  and  the  soft  blue  misty  light,  float- 
ing all  between  the  meadows  belonging  to  the  Vicarage, 
and  the  rocky,  or  verdant  mountains,  that  encircled  the 
glen,  and  shewed  a  different  outline,  under  the  changes 
of  the  atmosphere,  many  hundred  times  between  the 
morning  and  evening  sun.  Michael  knew  the  scene, 
from  his  wife's  description,  almost  as  well  as  if  he  saw  it ; 
and,  with  a  smile,  said,  he  hoped  Agnes  would  not  forget 
Bracken  Braes. 

They  were  not  allowed  to  forget  any  one  thing  they 
had  left,  for  Lucy,  although  she  had  never  written  a 
letter  in  her  life  before,  now  sent  them  long  despatches, 
full  of  news,  about  all  that  was  stirring  in  the  parish." 
These  epistles,  written  in  the  true  conversational  style, 
when  read  to  Michael,  brought  Lucy  close  to  his  side  ; 
and  as  they  contained  no  secrets,  they  were  given  to  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  123 

perusal  of  the  whole  family,  one  after  the  other  ;  for 
Agnes  was  proud  of  her  Lucy's  accomplishments  as  a 
penwoman,  nor  had  she  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  the 
natural  strain  of  sentiment  that  ran  through  them  from 
beginning  to  end.  "  Our  Lucy,  Mrs.  Colinson,  had  the 
best  education,  I  may  say,  from  the  time  she  could  speak, 
for  her  father  taught  her  everything  himself,  before  it  had 
pleased  God  to  take  away  his  sight ;  and  ever  since  syne 
she  has  been  constantly  about  his  knees  ;  so  you  may  all 
ken  what  advantage  our  Lucy  has  had  above  any  other 
girl  of  her  age." 

Only  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks  ago,  and  those  now 
so  affectionately  disposed  towards  one  another,  and  so 
happy  in  each  other's  society,  had  been  mutually  igno- 
rant of  the  existence  of  the  two  families  !  Why  need 
friendship,  although  a  sacred  plant,  be  of  slow  growth  1 
No  doubt  its  flowers  are  not  all  disclosed,  but  under  the 
influence  of  tears,  which  are  to  it  like  the  evening  dews; 
and  if  tears  were  all  that  were  wanting  to  the  friendship 
of  the  Foresters  and  Colinsons,  they  were  soon  supplied; 
for  Agnes  had  been  unwell  for  a  couple  of  days  —  hav- 
ing exposed  herself,  it  was  thought,  too  much  to  the  mid- 
day sun,  observing  the  merry  work  in  the  hay  field  — 
and  now  lay  in  a  low  but  oppressive  fever,  of  which  the 
symptoms  became  daily  more  alarming,  till  her  medical 
attendant,  Mr.  lanson,  at  last  pronounced  her  to  be  in 
imminent  danger. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  wife's  illness,  Michael  Forester 
had  behaved  with  that  calmness  and  composure  accor- 
dant with  his  character.  But  no  sooner  had  Mr.  Colinson 
intimated  to  him  something  of  the  truth,  than  it  seemed  as 
if  he  had  spoken  to  a  different  man.  That  grave  and  re- 
signed demeanor  was  in  a  moment  changed  into  the 
wildest  distraction.  While  his  features  grew  rigid  in  his 
agony,  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  and,  turning  his 
sightless  countenance  towards  heaven,  he  uttered  a  short 
prayer  for  mercy.  The  big  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks, 
and  he  groaned  aloud  without  any  restraint.  It  was  not 
possible  for  any  human  heart  but  his  own  to  know  what 
his  love  was  to  his  Agnes.    It  had  pleased  God  to  destroy 


124  THE    FORESTERS. 

his  eyesight,  but  even  the  first  troubled  days  of  that 
affliction  had  been  calmed  by  the  piety  of  his  wife.  Love, 
affection,  gratitude,  and  reverence  towards  her,  had 
been  accumulating  in  his  heart  for  several  dark  years,  till 
now  Agnes  was  to  him  the  being  that  kept  in  care  its 
very  pulses,  and  without  whom  it  would  cease  to  beat. 
Was  Agnes  indeed  to  die?  "Dreadful  are  thy  judg- 
ments,. O  Lord  ! "  And  the  strong  man  fell  down  upon 
his  face,  deprived  of  sense  and  speech.  When  he  awoke 
to  a  sense  of  the  condition  of  Agnes,  that  fit  of  passion 
was  in  no  [degree  abated.  Religion  itself  gave  him  no 
power  over  his  misery,  and  he  confessed  to  them  all  that 
his  spirit  was  in  rebellion  against  God,  and  could  not 
submit  to  his  terrible  decrees.  Where,  now,  was  the 
merit  of  all  his  previous  resignation  ?  Joy  and  delight 
had  been  graciously  infused  with  all  its  former  trials; 
and  no  wonder  that  he  had  borne  them  without  much 
murmuring  or  impatience.  But  now  it  was  to  be  tried, 
whether  or  not  Michael  Forester,  with  all  his  virtue  and 
all  his  faith,  was  willing  to  acknowledge  the  supremacy 
of  his  Maker,  or  to  lift  up  a  brow  of  despair,  which  is 
only  another  word  for  helpless  anger,  towards  the  heav- 
ens, now  black  with  mortal  judgment !  At  that  hour  his 
soul  was  weighed  in  the  balance,  and  found  wanting;  for 
he  thought  that  he  might  now  take  the  evil  advice  offered 
to  the  man  of  Uz  —  curse  God  and  die.  Unhappy  mor- 
tals !  whose  best  affections  lead  to  disobedience  of  the 
commands  of  Him  who  gave  them  for  a  blessing  in  this 
vale  of  tears  !  Happy  mortals  !  who  may  come  to  know 
that  even  into  the  deepest  wounds  those  affections  can 
suffer,  there  is  a  divine  hand  that  can  pour  a  balm  that 
flows  in  the  fountains  of  heaven  ! 


THE    FORESTERS.  1"26 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

Cheerfulness  and  tranquillity  had  reigned  in  and 
about  the  house  of  Bracken  Braes  during  the  whole  month 
of  June.  The  spirit  of  Michael  Forester  had  seemed  to 
preside  during  his  absence;  and  for  the  first  week  after 
the  departure  of  her  parents,  not  unfrequently  had  Lucy 
looked  up  when  a  shadow  came  to  the  door,  half  forgetful 
that  her  father  was  away,  and  expecting  to  see  him  enter 
and  lay  down  his  staff.  Loud  and  merry  was  the  murmur 
of  the  plane  tree,  where  the  hill  and  the  hive  bees  met  in 
multitudes,  regardless  of  each  other  among  the  honey 
dew  ;  and  Aunt  Isobel  and  Lucy,  according  to  agreement, 
sat  below  it  at  slated  times  every  day,  that  Michael  and 
Agnes,  when  far  off,  might  think  they  beheld  them  in 
that  pleasant  shadow.  Oftener,  perhaps,  than  usual  did 
Edward  Ellis  come  now  to  the  house  ;  at  least  so  thought 
Aunt  Isobel ;  and,  indeed,  he  could  not  otherwise  see 
Lucy,  for  many  were  the  injunctions  her  mother  had 
given  her  never  to  leave  the  old  lady  long  by  herself,  and 
the  affectionate  creature  never  cared  to  go  out  of  the  gate 
at  the  end  of  the  avenue. 

"  You  never  go  now  to  the  linn,  my  dear  Lucy;  per- 
haps, for  anything  you  know,  the  howlet's  nest  is  gone. 
What  would  you  say  to  find  the  old  yew  destroyed,  and 
all  its  bright  ivy  ?  Do,  sweet  Lucy,  take  a  walk  down 
there  to-morrow  evening;  you  can  easily  make  an  errand 
to  the  Manse;  nay,  1  will  tell  a  white  lie,  and  say  to 
Aunt  Isobel  that  Miss  Kennedy  wishes  you  to  drink  tea 
there.  Mind  now,  my  beloved  Lucy  —  do  not  make  me 
unhappy  —  I  will  not  leave  the  linn  till  the  first  star. 
But  there  comes  that  everlasting  Aunt  Isobel  "  Slight 
as  was  the  fault  of  that  stealthy  assignation  —  which, 
indeed,  Lucy  had  not,  except  by  her  silence,  agreed  to  hold; 
she  felt  as  if  detected  in  doing  something  wrong  when 
Aunt  Isobel  looked  into  her  face,  and,  no  doubt,  saw  its 
beauty  overspread  with  many  innocent  blushes.  Edward 
11* 


126  THE    FORESTERS, 

Ellis  felt  he  had  spoken  a  little  disrespectfully  of  the  good 
old  lady,  and  set  himself  to  made  amends  by  his  pleasantest 
courtesies.  There  was  a  charm  in  the  graceful  boy's 
manners,  which  were  never  lost  on  any  one,  young  or 
old,  below  that  roof ;  and  when  he  rose  to  go,  Aunt  Iso- 
bel  .even  pressed  his  stay.  But  Edward,  giving  one  anxious 
and  hopeful  look  to  Lucy,  took  his  fishing  rod,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

When  to-morrow  evening  came,  great  was  the  struggle 
in  Lucy's  mind  whether  to  go  or  not  to  go  to  the  linn. 
She  remembered  the  serious  injunctions  of  both  her  pa- 
rents never  to  leave  Aunt  Isobel  in  the  house  by  herself; 
but  the  white  lie  had  been  told;  the  long  summer  even- 
ing was  wavering  by,  dewy  and  calm  ;  that  sun,  which 
in  another  hour  or  so  would  be  setting,  was  indeed  a 
golden  sun,  and  so  were  the  clouds  that  lay  over  the 
golden  sky  ;  the  stream,  as  it  went  gliding  on  tovi'ards 
the  linn,  seemed  to  murmur  on  her  to  accompany  the 
music  along  its  banks;  and  she  thought  of  Edward  Ellis, 
leaning,  perhaps,  at  that  very  moment  against  the  yew 
tree,  and  almost  angry  at  her  non-arrival.  "  Surely  there 
can  be  no  great  harm,"  thought  Lucy,  "  in  my  just  going 
to  tell  him  not  to  wait  any  longer,  and  singing  to  him, 
*Auld  Langsyne,'  or  the  '  Flowers  o'  the  Forest.'  "  So 
,Lucy  put  on  her  bonnet,  feeling,  notwithstanding  her 
slight  disobedience,  that  while  she  loved  Edward  Ellis, 
her  affection  would  only  be  for  a  month  or  a  year,  when 
he  would  be  gone  for  ever  ;  but  that  she  belonged,  indeed, 
to  her  father  and  her  mother,  and  would  live  with  them, 
contented  and  happy,  all  the  days  of  her  life. 

She  was  standing  at  the  door,  looking  at  the  sun,  that 
now  shone  right  over  the  Cairn  Craig,  when,  to  her  sur- 
prise, there  were  Mr.  Kennedy  and  Edward  Ellis  coming 
up  the  avenue.  They  bade  her  good  evening,  with  more 
serious  looks  than  she  had  ever  observed  before  ;  and  her 
heart  sunk,  she  knew  not  why,  in  an  indistinct  foreboding 
of  some  evil.  Mr.  Kennedy  immediately  began  to  speek 
to  Aunt  Isobel  about  their  distant  friends,  and,  opening 
a  letter  which  he  said  he  had  just  received  from  Mr. 
Colinson,  informed   them  that  Agnes  was  far  from   being 


THE    FOKESTEKS.  1^ 

well ;  indeed,  that  she  had  a  fever,  and  that  her  husband, 
not  without  reason,  was  unhappy  for  her  sake.  He  then 
read  the  letter  aloud  ;  and  Lucy  could  not  but  know  that 
the  life  of  her  mother  was  in  danger.  She  heard  it  with 
a  pang  of  conscience  ;  and  in  spite  of  Mr.  Kennedy's 
calm  voice,  and  hopeful  expression  of  countenance,  wept 
in  a  fit  of  fear,  pity,  and  grief  "  Nay,  nay,  Lucy,  do 
not  weep  so,"  said  Edward  Ellis,  with  a  cheering  tone  ; 
"  the  fevers  in  that  country  are  sharp  and  severe,  but  not 
dangerous  —  not  often  fatal.  Your  mother  is  in  God's 
hands  ;  and  do  not  fear,  Lucy,  but  that  she  will  recover." 
But  every  comfort  was  wasted  upon  the  terrified  child  ; 
and  she  looked  in  vain  for  encouragement  to  Aunt  Isobel, 
whose  face  had  undergone  a  dark  change.  Mr.  Kennedy 
and  Edward  remained  about  an  hour  in  the  house;  and 
Lucy,  who  accompanied  them  a  little  way  down  the  vale, 
whispered  to  the  latter,  with  a  sob  —  "  O  Mr.  Ellis,  Mr. 
Ellis  !  can  you  meet  me  to-night,  at  twelve  o'clock  —  ay, 
at  midnight  —  at  the  linn  ?"  and  she  retired  weeping  to 
the  house. 

Aunt  Isobel  did  all  that  affection  and  pity  could  do  to 
comfort  Lucy,  but  all  in  vain  :  they  were  able,  indeed, 
to  say  the  evening  prayer,  but  it  was  with  sore  distress ; 
and  they  at  last  retired  to  their  beds.  "  You  had  better 
sleep  with  me  to-night,  my  dear  bairn  ; "  but  Lucy  said 
she  would  rather  lie  in  her  mother's  bed,  as  she  had  done 
since  they  went  away  ;  and  that  Aunt  Isobel  need  not 
come  to  her  during  the  night,  unless  she  called  upon  her; 
so,  by  the  dim  summer  light,  each  went  to  her  own  room. 
But  no  sooner  was  everything  still  in  Aunt  Isobel'sroom, 
than  Lucy,  who  had  never  undressed  herself,  rose  silently 
as  a  ghost,  and,  taking  a  few  garments  in  her  basket, 
stole  out  of  the  house. 

Truer  than  any  maiden  to  the  trysting  hour  was  Lucy 
at  the  linn  ;  but  there  Edward  Ellis  was  before  her,  and 
received  the  weeping  girl  with  all  the  soothing  fondness 
of  a  brother.  "  Oh  !  now,  the  time  has  come,  Mr.  Ellis, 
when  you  can  prove  if  you  have  any  kindness  for  poor 
Lucy  Forester.  My  mother  is  dying  far  away,  and  my 
blind  father  is  at  her  death-bed.     Ever  good  to  us  all 


128  THE    FORESTERS. 

have  you  been  ;  and  now,  I  beseech  you,  in  the  name  of 
the  great  merciful  God,  and  the  Son  of  God,  that  you 
will  help  me  to  get  to  the  place  where  my  parents  are, 
far  off  although  it  be  —  mair,  indeed,  they  say  than  a 
hundred  miles."  Edward  stood  in  amazement  and  said 
nothing.  "  O  sir  I  if  your  ain  father  were  dying,  you 
wouldna  long  be  here  ;  and,  puir  ignorant  creature  as  I 
am,  you  cannot  love  your  parents  better  than  I  do  mine; 
so,  tell  me  —  tell  me  how  to  get  to  England,  and  I  will 
pray  for  you  to  Heaven,  morning  and  night,  as  long  as  I 
am  in  life."  And  Lucy  dropped  upon  her  knees,  and 
held  up  to  him  her  clasped  hands  in  an  agony  of  suppli- 
cation. 

Edward  Ellis  tried  to  raise  her  gently  from  her  kneel- 
ing posture;  but  Lucy  seemed  rooted  to  the  ground. 
Then,  lifting  her  eyes  to  heaven,  she  said,  with  a  calmer 
and  clearer  voice — "  O  Thou  that  dwellest  far  above 
the  moon  and  stars,  take  pity  on  me,  and  save  my  mother 
from  death !  "  and,  in  the  hush  of  the  great  heavens,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  child  heard  a  merciful  response  given  to 
her  prayer. 

"  There  will  be  no  darkness  to-night,  Lucy  ;  for  to-day 
was  the  longest  day  in  all  the  year,  and  the  morning  will 
soon  come  upon  the  moon  and  stars.  Cheer  up,  my 
sweetest  one ;  and  brother  and  sister  as  we  are,  we  two 
will  travel  southwards  together  through  the  openings 
between  the  hills."  Away  they  went,  side  by  side,  over 
bank  and  brae  ;  and  Edward  Ellis,  who,  as  a  sportsman, 
knew  all  the  hill  country  well,  to  the  very  English  Bor- 
der, determined  to  lead  Lucy  to  the  point  where  he  knew, 
at  a  stated  hour,  a  conveyance  would  be  found  for  her  to 
Penrith.  No  weariness  affected  her  limbs;  the  passion 
of  grief  carried  her  lightly  over  the  hags  in  the  moss  — 
over  the  stony  torrents  —  and  the  steep  heathery  hills  ; 
no  more  tired  than  a  fawn  feeding  during  the  night  hours ; 
and,  at  sunrise,  many  a  clouded  mountain  lay  between 
her  and  Bracken  Braes.  She,  poor  fugitive,  felt  now 
that  she  had  made  her  escape  from  Aunt  Isobel,  who 
never  would  have  suffered  her  to  go,  and  that  she  was 
indeed   on  the  way  to  her  dying  mother.     Even   hope 


THE    FORESTERS.  129 

began  to  rise  with  the  bright  morning  light;  and  as  her 
feet  brushed  yet  unfaltering  over  the  dews,  she  faintly 
smiled  in  the  face  of  her  guide;  and,  in  her  gratitude  to 
him,  felt  almost  an  assurance  that  her  mother  would  yet 
recover. 

They  sat  down  together  on  the  turf,  beside  a  hill-side 
spring;  and  Lucy  needed  no  other  refreshment  than  a 
little  of  that  purest  water.  But  Edward  left  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  and,  running  to  a  hut  on  the  edge  of  a  birk  cop- 
pice, came  back  with  some  barley  bread.  "  You  may 
rest  yourself  here,  Lucy,  for  an  hour  or  two,  or  even 
three,  if  you  choose,  for  we  shall  even  then  be  in  good 
time  at  the  inn,  on  the  great  north  road;  and  I  will  not 
leave  you  till  I  see  you  in  safe  hands."  Lucy  put  her 
trust  in  him,  just  as  if  he  had  been  an  angel  whom  she 
had  seen  come  down  from  the  sky.  Her  plaid  had  been 
brought  with  her  ;  the  noble-hearted  boy  folded  her  up 
in  it  with  gentle  hands,  and  made  her  lie  down  by  his 
side  below  the  shadow  of  a  gray  mossy  rock,  that,  like  a 
canopy,  covered  a  bed  of  smoothest  herbage.  Lucy, 
although  she  had  not  known  it,  was  wearied  with  her 
flight  of  more  than  twenty  long  Scottish  miles,  and  fell 
asleep  with  her  hand  laid  in  its  innocence  almost  upon 
her  benefactor's  breast.  Edward  put  aside  the  golden 
ringlets  and  kissed  her  forehead,  and  then  he  too  fell  into 
a  slumber,  but  still  conscious  that  his  arm  was  over  Lucy 
Forester. 

In  an  hour  or  two  Lucy  awoke,  and,  starting  to  her 
feet,  looked  round  as  in  a  dream.  But  the  thought  of 
her  mother  made  all  plain  at  once :  over  moss  and  muir 
they  again  pursued  their  journey,  and  in  good  time  reached 
the  place  where  their  walk  was  to  terminate.  Lucy 
received  her  instructions  from  Edward,  who  knew  well 
—  boy  as  he  was — all  the  lake  land;  and  she  put  his 
memorandum  book  into  her  bosom.  "I  will  get  back  to 
the  Manse  before  night,  Lucy,  if  I  should  have  to  hire  a 
horse  out  of  the  work  field.  What  will  the  good  people 
at  Holylee  and  Bracken  Braes  be  thinking  has  become 
of  us  ?  "  —  "I  left  a  slip  of  paper  in  Aunt  Isobel's  Bible, 
telling   what  I  intended  to  do,  and  begging  her  forgive- 


130  THE    FORESTERS. 

ness ;  and  there  she  would  be  sure  to  find  it  at  six  o'clock 
this  morning." 

No  less  magnificent  a  vehicle  than  his  Majesty's  mail 
now  drove  up  in  style  ;  and  while  the  horses  were  baiting, 
Edward  Ellis  looked  in,  and  beheld  two  persons  asleep, 
and  two  half  awake.  He  opened  the  door,  and,  without 
ceremony,  lifted  Lucy  up ;  but  strong  opposition  was  de- 
clared by  the  most  pompous  of  the  somnolent  gentlemen, 
thus  disturbed,  in  his  ideal  world,  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
human  face  like  that  of  Lucy  Forester.  An  old-maidenish 
lady,  with  a  somewhat  sour  expression,  seemed  disposed 
to  join  the  leader  of  the  opposition  ;  but  first  looking  at 
Edward  Ellis,  and  then  at  Lucy,  her  features  relaxed  into 
a  benevolent  smile,  and  she  seemed  willing  to  endeavor 
to  make  room  for  them  both.  A  young  man,  in  a  naval 
uniform,  stopped  the  fat's  whig's  mouth  with  a  harmless 
nautical  oath;  and  Edward  Ellis  committed  Lucy  to  his 
care.  "Ay  —  ay  —  young  gentleman  —  I  will  see  her 
safe  to  harbor,  whether  sister  or  sweetheart."  Edward 
knew  Lucy  was  safe,  and  had  just  time  to  shake  hands 
with  the  tar,  who  bore  bravery  and  kindness  in  his  weather- 
beaten  countenance,  when  the  guard  sounded  his  bugle  ; 
and  off  flew  Lucy  Forester  of  Bracken  Braes,  in  a  car- 
riage drawn  by  four  blood  horses. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

Lucy  had  been  committed  to  the  charge  of  a  man  who 
would  have  gone  through  fire  and  water  —  nay,  who  had 
done  so  —  nor  thought  anything  of  danger,  to  save  the 
life  of  a  human  creature  in  jeopardy.  Mr.  Marshall  was 
a  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  and  his  ship  having  come  into 
Leith  Harbor,  for  repair  of  damages  sustained  in  a  gale 
in  the  North  Seas,  he  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  wheel- 
ing off  for  a  week  to  his  father's  house  on  the  banks  of 
Ullswater.     He  soon  heard  poor  Lucy's  story  ;  and  having 


TUB    FORESTERS.  131 

learned  the  value  of  home  feelings  on  the  great  deep,  he 
felt  the  strongest  compassion -icir  his  pretty  little  friend, 
and  did  all  he  could  to  assuage  her  affliction.  Lucy  felt 
as  if  the  whole  world  were  kind  to  her,  and  allowed  her- 
self to  believe  in  the  offered  comfort.  In  a  few  hours  she 
could  even  listen  with  interest  to  Mr.  Marshall's  stories 
about  the  sea;  and,  once  or  twice,  almost  joined  in  the 
laughter  of  the  other  passengers,  when  the  jolly  tar  became 
amusing  in  his  anecdotes.  Old  maids  do  not  in  general 
stand  high  in  public  estimation,  on  the  score  either  of 
urbanity  or  tender-heartedness;  but  this  may  be  a  popular 
delusion,  and  certainly,  in  the  present  case,  Lucy  had 
good  cause  to  love  the  sisterhood  ;  for  this  elderly  Preston 
spinstress  was  as  tender  towards  her  as  if  she  herself  had 
been  the  happy  mother  of  many  children  ;  and  on  part- 
ing with  her  at  Penrith,  late  in  the  evening,  when  Lucy 
was  to  leave  the  coach,  gave  her  the  present  of  an  English 
Prayer  Book,  inscribed  hastily  with  both  their  names  — 
"  Laelitia  Bairstovv,  to  Lucy  Forester  :  God  have  her  al- 
ways in  his  holy  keeping." 

Lucy  showed  Mr.  Marshall  the  instructions  she  had 
received  from  Edward  Ellis.  "All  right  —  all  right  — 
my  bonny  lassie;  but  you  are  not  afraid,  are  you,  to  trust 
yourself  with  me?"  —  "  No,  sir  ;  I  will  trust  myself  en- 
tirely to  so  good  a  man.  You  know  where  I  am  going, 
and  from  where  I  have  come.  Oh  sir !  you  ken  that  my 
heart  is  fu'  o'  grief,  and  that  I  want  sair  to  see  my  moth- 
er—  can  you  contrive  to  send  me  on  to  Ellesmere,  and 
my  father  will  be  sure  to  pay  the  expense,  for  I  am  awa' 
without  siller,  and  neither  did  Mr.  Ellis  remember."  The 
lieutenant  put  his  hand  kindly  on  her  shoulder,  and  Lucy 
was  silent.  In  a  couple  of  hours  Lucy  Forester  found 
herself  in  Seathwaite  Hall  —  an  old  mansion  on  the  banks 
of  Ullswater —  in  a  drawing-room,  surrounded  by  young 
ladies,  who,  after  embracing  joyfully  their  gallant  brother, 
bestowed  their  wondering  and  admiring  kindness  upon 
his  beautiful  charge.  It  was  late  inthenighl;  and  ex- 
cept those  three  hours'  slumber  by  the  spring  on  the  hill 
side  in  Scotland  Lucy  had  had  no  sleep  since  the  early 
morn  of  yesterday.     She  was  conducted  to  the  prettiest 


132  THE    FORESTERS, 

bed,  in  the  prettiest  room  she  had  ever  seen,  by  "a  young 
Jady  only  a  little  older  than  herself,  and  who  kissed  her 
on  saying  good-night ;  and  before  Lieutenant  Marshall 
had  been  able  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  his  sisters  about 
the  beautiful  Scottish  maiden,  Lucy  was  in  a  profound 
sleep. 

Nature  had  given  Lucy  Forester  into  the  arms  of  sleep, 
but  all  the  while  the  child  lay  dreaming,  there  was  a  res- 
olution kept  mysteriously  within  her  heart,  that  she  would 
awake  at  sunrise ;  for  her  filial  sorrow  was  not  dead  in 
that  slumber,  and  it  awoke  her  like  a  little  knell  at  the 
time  her  heart  had  fixed.  She  opened  the  shutter,  and 
looked  timidly  out  upon  a  broad  bright  bay  thai  glittered 
in  the  sunlight,  shaded  from  the  opposite  shore  by  a 
grove  of  huge  forest  trees.  Lucy  thought  herself  in  an- 
other world.  Several  men  were  standing  beside  a  boat 
—  the  first  she  had  ever  seen,  except  in  pictures;  and 
there  was  Lientenant  Marshall,  whose  loud  cheerful 
laugh  was  heard  from  the  water  side.  As  she  stood  con- 
sidering how  she  could  join  the  party,  the  pretty  creature, 
who  had  taken  her  to  the  bedroom  last  night,  came  in 
dressed  almost  as  plainly  as  herself,  and  conducted  her  to 
the  parlor.  Breakfast  over,  Agatha  Marshall  accompa- 
nied her  down  to  the  lake  side,  and  leaped  into  the  pin- 
nace. Lucy  followed  in  wonder ;  but  she  saw  the  lieu- 
tenant at  the  helm.  The  snow-white  sail  was  hoisted 
and  unfurled,  and  a  breeze  coming  with  a  rustle  down 
Giencoin,  away  went  the  Naiad  of  Ullswater,  and,  before 
a  word  was  spoken,  had  rounded  the  green  point  of  the 
bay,  and  was  out  of  sight  of  her  anchorage. 

Agatha  held  Lucy  by  the  hand  ;  and,  as  the  Naiad 
stooped  her  gunwale  in  the  wreathed  foam  that  flowed 
like  a  waterfall  away  from  her  prow,  told  her,  with  a 
smile,  not  to  be  afraid.  Friends  of  an  hour  —  there  they 
sat  like  sisters  that  had  lived  together  from  their  birth. 
Lucy,  oppressed  as  her  heart  was,  and  sorely  troubled, 
could  not  help  seeing,  with  the  stealing  delight  of  won- 
der, the  wooded  cliffs  that  seemed  to  shoot  across  the 
water  and  block  up  their  way,  and  then  slowly  to  recede, 
leaving  nothing  but  the  merry  multitude  of  waves.    Were 


THE    FORESTERS.  133 

these  rocks,  she  thought,  or  were  they  old  castles  and 
churches  hidden  among  the  trees  or  the  clouds?  But 
Lucy  would  then  close  her  eyes,  for  she  felt  them  filling 
with  tears,  as  she  figured  to  herself  the  bed  where  her 
blind  father  might  be  standing  to  witness  her  mother  die. 
"  Let  go  the  main-sheet,"  cried  the  lieutenant;  and,  after 
a  moment's  bustle,  they  were  all  standing  in  a  green  mea- 
dow, beside  a  bank  of  willows.  "  You  are  now  at  Pat- 
terdale,  Lucy;  and  here  1  and  Agatha  must  bid  you  fare- 
well. It  is  not  often  I  see  the  old  gentleman,  and  1  must 
not  be  away  at  the  breakfast  table  the  first  morning  I  am 
at  home."  Lucy  would  not  hear  of  a  guide.  Mr.  Mar- 
shall knew  there  was  no  fear  of  her  missing  the  way  over 
Kirkstone;  the  day  was  fine;  so  away  danced  the  home- 
ward-bound Naiad,  with  Agatha  waving  a  signal  from 
the  stern;  and  Lucy,  after  gazing  a  little  while,  turned 
her  towards  the  great  mountains. 

Lucy  had  never  been  one  moment  utterly  alone  since 
she  heard  of  her  mother's  illness.  But  now,  in  a  short 
time,  there  was  no  human  being  near  her  in  the  solitude. 
House  after  house  had  disappeared,  and  now  there  was 
nothing  but  rocks  and  sky.  These  were  not  like  the 
hills  about  Bracken  Braes  ;  and  the  child  felt  awed  in  the 
desert.  She  sat  down  on  the  ledge  of  a  bridge,  across  a 
small  rivulet  that  crossed  that  wild  road,  and  opened  the 
book  given  to  her  by  that  unknown  lady.  "  God  have 
her  always  in  his  holy  keeping."  She  lifted  her  eyes 
from  these  words,  and  saw  the  lambs  running  races  upon 
the  scanty  green  plrits  among  the  rocks  ;  the  air  was  filled 
with  murmuring  insects;  and  a  little  bright  bird,  of  a 
kind  she  had  never  seen  before,  kept  playing  his  pretty 
gambols  on  the  very  ledge  where  she  was  sitting,  as  if  for 
her  amusement,  and  then  began  to  trim  his  yellow  and 
crimson  plumage.  Every  creature  seemed  happy,  and 
why  might  not  she  at  least  hope?  She  read  over  and 
over  again  all  Edward  Ellis'  kind  instructions,  and  hoped 
that  God  would  bless  him  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

The  young  pilgrim  was  just  about  to  rise  and  pursue 
her  journey  up  the  toilsome  mountain,  when  two  or  three 
12 


134  THE    FORESTERS. 

big  drops  of  rain  fell  on  the  blue-slate  coping^  of  the 
bridge,  and  the  dust  of  the  road  seemed  in  an  instant  sul- 
trier. That  narrow  desert  place  was  darkened  between 
its  fearful  rocks ;  and  she  knew,  from  the  sudden  grim- 
ness  of  the  heaven,  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  thunder- 
storm. Ever  since  that  fatal  day  in  the  Hirst  wood,  her 
heart  had  quaked  at  the  most  distant  growl  of  the  ele- 
ment. 

A  number  of  large  stones,  confusedly  hanging  over 
each  other,  afforded  various  places  of  shelter  ;  and  Lucy, 
to  avoid  the  rain  that  now  came  down  in  torrents,  and  to 
lose  sight  of  the  flashes,  crept  into  one  of  them,  and  en- 
deavored to  hide  herself  from  the  thunder.  There  she 
lay  with  a  quaking  heart,  while  sometimes  the  thunder 
crash  seemed  to  shake  the  pillars  of  her  prison.  Looking 
out  with  a  hurried  glance,  during  a  cessation  of  the  peals, 
she  saw  the  tall  figure  of  a  man  indistinctly  moving 
through  the  mist ;  and  the  sight  of  a  human  being  in  that 
awful  solitude  brought  her  out  from  her  concealment. 
Pale  and  speechless,  and  trembling  with  fear,  and  the 
coldness  of  that  wet  dungeon,  Lucy  stood  before  him  in 
the  attitude  of  a  suppliant.  In  a  little  while  she  told  her 
story;  and  the  old  shepherd,  who  had  been  descending 
into  Patterdale,  turned  back,  and  said  he  would  see  her 
safe  into  the  vale  of  Ambleside.  The  hurricane  still  con- 
tinued ;  but  Lucy  forgot  all  her  fears,  for  the  shepherd 
wore  a  calm  and  cheerful  countenance,  and  told  her  that, 
in  an  hour  at  farthest,  all  would  be  peace  and  sunshine. 
He  had  heard,  too,  of  the  Scotch  people  at  the  Vicarage 
of  EUesmere,  and  assured  Lucy  that  her  mother  must 
have  been  alive  the  night  before,  as  he  had  been  in  a 
house  in  that  vale,  and  had  heard  the  family  talking  of 
her  illness.  At  these  words  Lucy  heard  not  the  dying 
voice  of  the  thunder,  nor  observed  the  water  courses  that 
were  traversing  the  road  down  that  mountain  pass.  She 
kept  close  to  the  side  of  the  old  grave  shepherd,  whose 
words  were  few,  but  every  one  of  which  sounded  sweeter 
than  any  music.  "  Noo,  my  li'le  lass,  that's  Ammleside; 
ye  canna  gae  wrang ;  so  God  be  wi'  you,  and  may  ye  find 
your  puir  mother  in  life." 


THE    FORESTERS.  135 

Lucy  was  once  more  alone;  but  her  guide  had  left  her 
with  a  strengthened  heart,  and  in  a  place  where  it  was 
not  possible  to  be  very  melancholy.  For  the  short  sum- 
mer storm  was  over  and  gone,  and  the  valley  below  her 
literally  swam  in  light,  as  the  sun,  no  longer  obscured  by 
the  black  clouds  that  were  fading  in  every  direction,  il- 
luminated the  woods,  and  meadows,  and  the  winding  wa- 
ters of  the  Rothay.  The  blue  roofs  of  the  village,  em- 
bowered in  trees,  sent  a  cheerful  feeling  into  Lucy's  heart 
as  she  passed  by  the  gate  of  a  building,  which,  with  its 
dialled  tower,  she  knew  to  be  a  church;  and  crowds  of 
haymakers  seen  returning  into  every  field  after  the  rain, 
made  her  at  once  forget  the  solitary  region,  where  she 
had  been  overtaken  in  the  storm.  There  was  no  danger 
of  loosing  her  way  now  ;  and,  with  almost  a  spirit  of 
cheerfulness,  Lucy  dropped  like  a  bird  into  the  valley  of 
Ambleside. 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 

There  had  been  a  thunder  storm  for  several  hours 
among  the  mountains  of  Coniston  and  Langdale,  where 
the  clouds  lay  heaviest  and  blackest;  and  now  Lt  had 
reached  Ellesmere,  and  was  raging  above  the  Vicarage. 
The  windows  of  the  room  in  which  Agnes  lay  in  her 
fever  had  been  left  open,  behind  the  half  closed  shutters, 
that  a  wandering  breath  of  air  might  haply  come  down 
from  some  one  of  the  little  glens,  to  relieve  the  oppressive 
sultriness  of  the  atmosphere.  As  the  thunder  went  rat- 
tling over  the  roof,  and  the  flashes  of  lightning  gleamed 
across  the  darkened  room,  Agnes  was  wholly  insensible 
to  the  strife,  and,  although  not  asleep,  returned  no  answer 
to  the  kind  words  of  inquiry  which  now  and  then  the 
watchers  by  her  bedside  ventured  to  whisper  in  their 
anxiety.     In  the  intervals  of  silence,  the  many  mountain 


136  THE    FORESTERS. 

torrents  were  heard  sounding  on  all  sides  ;  for  there  had 
been  a  deluge  of  rain  at  their  sources,  and  every  hill  side 
shewed  a  number  of  cataracts.  Michael  Forester  heard 
none  of  these  sounds.  His  wife's  hand  was  between  both 
of  his;  and  while  at  one  time  he  seemed  to  be  counting 
the  pulses,  at  another  he  listened  to  her  breathing,  as  if 
life  or  death  were  in  each  successive  sigh  He  was  ter- 
rified lest  those  fitful  pantings  should  all  at  once  be  mute, 
and  forever.  So  long  as  he  heard  that  breath,  to  him  all 
the  outward  tumult  was  as  silence. 

The  vicar,  and  indeed  the  whole  family,  had  nearly 
given  up  all  hope  of  Mrs  Forester's  recovery.  A  fatal 
crisis  seemed  to  be  at  hand;  and,  as  if  each  person  read 
in  the  other's  eyes  an  intimation  that  they  ought  all  to 
leave  the  room,  one  by  one  they  began  to  do  so,  and  at 
last  none  were  left  there  with  the  dying  person  but  Mr. 
lanson  and  her  husband.  The  family  collected  them- 
selves together  in  the  large  room  below,  and  there  they 
sat,  not  without  sobbing  and  tears,  fearing  every  moment 
to  see  Mr.  lanson  coming  down  stairs,  with  a  counte- 
nance telling  that  all  was  over.  And  thus  they  had  sat 
nearly  an  hour  —  the  storm  was  hushed  —  and  sunshine 
was  again  struggling  through  the  gloom,  and  finding  its 
way  through  the  lead  latticed  window  to  the  floor  of  the 
room  where  they  had  been  sitting  so  dark  and  silent. 
The  swallows  were  beginning  to  twitter  without,  and  na- 
ture slowly  to  reassume  her  customary  cheerfulness  'and 
tranquillity.  The  door  opened,  and  a  stranger  girl,  step- 
ping timidly  across  the  floor,  asked  eagerly  —  "Is  this 
Mr.  Colinson's,  the  vicar  of  Ellesmere?  Oh  sir,  I  am 
the  daughter  of  Michael  Forester  and  Agnes  Hay,  and 
my  name  is  Lucy.  Is  my  mother  in  the  land  o'  the  liv- 
ing?" 

Many  kind  tongues,  and  eyes,  and  hands,  were  soon 
comforting  the  dutiful  daughter ;  but  Lucy  heard  nothing 
but  that  her  mother  was  not  dead.  "  Oh  !  surely  you 
are  not  deceiving  me  ;  and  yet,  why  are  you  all  weeping 
so?  Where  is  my  father  —  perhaps  he  too  is  gone  — 
and  God's  judgments  more  terrible  than  I  can  bear  ? 
Here  am  I,  a'  the  way  frae  Scotland,  come  to  pray  by  my 


THE   FORESTERS.  137 

mother's  bedside;  and  God  has  brought  me  here  un- 
harmed, by  means  o'  the  kind  hands  o'  my  fellow  crea- 
tures, who  all  helped  me  on  towards  this  house,  so  far 
away  from  Bracken  Braes,  where  we  live!  O  my  bon- 
nie  lassie  I  tell  me  —  tell  me  —  if  my  mother  is  indeed 
likely  to  live!"  Ruth  Colinson  felt  her  own  hopes 
strengthened  by  the  passionate  earnestness  of  this  appeal, 
and  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  to  Lucy,  that  her  mother 
jiad  not  been  any  worse  since  the  morning,  and  that, 
perhaps,  the  danger  might  be  past.  Just  then  Mr.  Ian- 
son  came  down  stairs,  and  there  was  no  fatal  expression 
in  his  countenance,  so  Ruth  once  more  assured  her  that 
there  was  hope.  Then  Lucy  sat  down  and  cried  bitterly, 
as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

At  such  a  time  there  was  no  need  of  deception  or 
concealment.  None  knew  how  God  was  dealing  with 
her  in  the  room  above  ;  but  here  was  the  creature  dear- 
est to  her  on  tliis  earth,  brought  to  her  bedside  as  by  a 
prayer.  So  they  led  Lucy  to  the  sick-room  ;  and  in  a 
moment,  with  every  sob  hushed,  she  was  on  her  knees, 
at  her  mother's  bedside,  with  her  forehead  resting  upon 
the  hands  of  her  father. 

The  mind  of  Agnes  had  been  wandering  for  some 
time;  and  the  fever  had  caused  many  afflicting  dreams. 
"  Poor  Lucy  !  drowned  in  that  black  marl  pit.  Merciful 
God!  see  her — ^see  her  clinging  to  a  branch!  What 
can  a  blind  father  do  to  save  his  child  ?  Oh,  what 
shrieks!  what  shrieks ! "  Michael  turned  his  sightless 
countenance  towards  Mr.  Linson,  as  if  he  looked  for 
comfort.  In  the  agony  of  his  despair,  he  believed  that 
in  medical  knowledge  lay  a  foresight  of  futurity,  and  he 
felt  as  if  even  the  issues  of  life  and  of  death  were  com- 
mitted to  his  mortal  hands.  "O  father,  father!  I  your 
daughter,  Lucy,  am  here.  Put  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
and  know;  my  mother's  face  is  not  so  changed  as  I 
thought;  and  she  will  live  —  will  live  —  and  go  back 
with  us,  under  the  mercy  of  the  Almighty,  to  Bracken 
Braes."  Michael  Forester  sat  for  a  few  moments  mute 
and  motionless;  and  then  he,  too,  knelt  down  by  the 
12* 


138  THE    FORESTERS. 

bedside  of  Agnes,  and  laid  his  cheek  on  Lucy's  head, 
the  touch  of  whose  hair,  wet  as  it  was  with  the  rains, 
and  sorely  dishevelled,  was  familiar  to  the  yearnings  of 
his  inmost  heart,  and  calmed  in  some  measure  the  sever- 
ity of  his  protracted  passion. 

Agnes  started  up  in  one  of  those  sudden  fits  of  dis- 
ordered strength,  that  in  a  fever  often  come  upon  the 
apparent  prostration  of  all  vital  power,  and  opening  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time  during  twenty-four  hours,  fixed 
them  upon  Lucy,  who  by  this  time  had  risen  from  her 
knees,  and  was  standing  by  the  bedside.  Perhaps  the 
sound  of  that  voice  had  been  recognised  in  the  seeming 
deafness  of  her  spirit.  Ever  and  anon  she  averted,  and 
then  again  cast  her  eyes,  with  a  bewildered  eagerness, 
upon  her  daughter,  till  at  last  she  stretched  forth  her 
arms,  and  with  a  face  expressing  the  most  passionate 
fondness,  but  nothing  else,  drew  Lucy  to  her  bosom,  and 
kissing  her  with  a  thousand  kisses,  fell  back  on  her 
pillow.  Lucy,  in  that  embrace,  had  crept  into  the  lowly 
bed  ;  and  there  she  lay  by  her  mother's  side,  both  mute, 
and,  to  all  who  looked  upon  them,  beautiful  as  in  the 
happiest  sleep. 

Now  that  Michael  had  been  permitted  to  reflect  on 
the  wonderful  appearance  of  Lucy  at  the  Vicarage,  and 
then  had  been  told  by  Mr.  Colinson  of  the  nature  of  her 
journey,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  the  mother  of  such 
a  child  would  he  spared  even  for  her  sake.  He  had  for 
several  days  and  nights  past  thought  of  Lucy  as  an  or- 
phan. In  his  dreams  he  had  seen  her  weeping  in  sore 
distress,  and  she  would  not  be  comforted.  For  in  all 
his  dreams,  Michael  saw  still  the  objects  of  his  affection; 
and  indeed  there  was  no  blindness  in  that  imaginary 
world.  Now  God,  and  God  only,  had  sent  Lucy  to 
restore  her  mother  to  life.  "  Impossible,  impossible, 
that  our  child  has  been  brought  hither  only  to  see  her 
mother  die!  Hush  —  hush:  they  have  both  fallen 
asleep;  and  Agnes'  breathing,  methinks,  is  assuredly 
more  free  and  more  composed." — "I  am  not  asleep, 
father,  but  my  mother  is;  and,  O,  I  beseech  you  all, 
here  let  me  lie  till  she  awakes." 


THE    FORESTERS.  139 

The  fever  in  which  her  mother  lay  might  be  infectious  ; 
but  Lucy  never  thought  of  that,  nor  perhaps  did  any  one 
then  present;  for,  in  such  extremities,  prudence  is  not 
known  to  love,  and  all  fear  is  for  the  dying.  Without 
any  clearly  understood  reason  for  it,  every  heart  now  be- 
gan to  hope.  The  vicar  walked  out  into  his  orchard  ; 
Ruth  looked  after  some  little  household  duty  with  noise- 
less steps;  and  Mrs.  Colinson  prepared  some  refreshment 
for  Mr.  lanson,  who  now  appeared  in  the  lower  room, 
and  said  that  there  certainly  seemed  a  decided  change 
for  the  better  in  the  condition  of  his  patient.  Michael 
Forester  had  followed  him  down  stairs  unperceived  ;  and, 
on  hearing  these  words,  not  meant  for  his  ear,  but  mani- 
festly addressed  to  another,  he  felt  as  if  lifted  up  out  of 
the  grave. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

Had  the  load  of  misery  under  which  Michael  Forester 
groaned  been  all  at  once  removed,  it  is  probable  that  his 
mind  would  have  given  way,  and  reason  itself  been  over- 
thrown. He  had  often  meditated  upon  all  other  evils 
that  might  befall  himself  or  Lucy  ;  but  the  death  of  Agnes 
had  never  been  suffered  to  steady  itself  before  his  imagina- 
tion, as  an  event  that  might  take  place;  and,  as  soon  as 
that  horrid  catastrophe  was  imminent,  he  abandoned  him- 
self, with  headlong  passion,  to  uttermost  despair.  But 
now  he  was  told  —  and  he  believed  it  —  that  Aimes 
might  recover  —  nay,  was  recovering;  and  his  whole 
frame  of  mind  and  body  was  shaken  as  by  a  convulsion. 
He  walked  about  the  house,  and  then  into  the  open  air, 
praying  and  clasping  his  hands,  and  sometimes,  when 
he  thought  himself  unobserved,  kneeling  down  and  ask- 
ing forgiveness  of  Heaven.  All  that  night  he  continued 
to  sit  by  her  bedside,  as  he  had  done  for  several  nights 
before,  although  he  was  assured  that  the  crisis  of  the 


140  THE    FORESTERS. 

fever  was  past.  Lucy  had  been  removed  into  another 
room  —  but  she  was  in  perfect  health  ;  and  her  father,  con- 
tented with  one  single  kiss  of  her  closed  eyes,  seemed  to 
forget  that  she  was  in  the  house,  and  sat  like  an  image 
by  his  Agnes.  Ruih  Colinson,  unknown  to  him,  was  in 
the  room,  for  one  or  other  of  the  family  had  been  by 
that  sick-bed  all  night  long,  ever  since  Agnes  had  been 
swimming  for  her  life.  Voices  were  still  low,  and  sad, 
and  whispering,  and  all  the  ordinary  occupations  of  the 
house  carried  on  in  silence.  Michael  longed  to  hear  one 
cheerful  tone — any  sound  like  a  laugh  —  any  motion 
that  might  denote  bustle  or  activity ;  for  he  still  gave  a 
rueful  interpretation  to  everything  he  discerned  in  his 
darkness,  and  shuddered  lest  the  noiselessness  of  mid- 
night might  be  a  token  of  despair  and  death. 

Another  day  and  another  night  passed  by,  and  Michael 
Forester  knew  that  his  Agnes  was  to  be  restored.  Far 
was  she  from  death  now,  according  to  the  judgment  of 
man,  as  on  the  afternoon  she  arrived  at  Ellesmere.  Their 
usual  gentle  and  steady  light  had  returned  to  her  eyes; 
the  few  words  she  was  able,  in  her  weakness,  to  utter, 
were  composed  and  happy;  she  recognised  every  one 
with  a  smile ;  and  two  or  three  quiet  tears  trickled  down 
her  pale  cheeks  when  Michael  told  her  the  story  of 
Lucy's  departure  and  journey  from  Bracken  Braes. 
Michael  and  Agnes  were  now  left  much  alone  ;  and, 
kind  and  skilful  as  Mr.  lanson  had  been,  what  blessed- 
ness to  know  that  his  presence  was  no  longer  needed  in 
their  house.  When  he  did  come,  it  was  only  a  visit  of 
congratulation  ;  and  Michael  Forester  was  even  able  to 
enjoy  his  cheerful  and  jocular  conversation  ;  for  Mr.  Ian- 
son  was  something  of  a  humorist,  and  had  a  store  of  anec- 
dote, on  which  the  club  had  drawn  every  Saturday  night 
for  several  years,  without  any  visible  diminution  of  the 
charm  of  novelty.  But,  in  a  few  days,  the  worthy  Doc- 
tor discontinued  even  such  visits  as  these  ;  and  Agnes,  so 
far  from  being  disturbed,  enjoyed  the  life  and  animation 
that,  somewhat  restrained,  were  heard  once  more  in 
every  apartment  of  the  Vicarage. 

But  the  joy  and   gratitude  of  Lucy  exhibited  them- 


THE    FORESTERS.  141 

selves  in  quite  a  different  character.  Hope  and  trust 
had  entered  into  her  young  and  innocent  heart  long 
before  her  father  had  dared  to  indulge  them  ;  and,  as 
soon  as  she  was  told  by  Mr.  lanson  that  her  mother  was 
out  of  danger,  a  very  flood  of  rapture  overflowed  her 
vviiole  spirit.  She  tried  to  keep  down  her  joy  —  she 
gazed  on  her  mother's  sunk  cheeks,  and  wept  —  she  went 
by  herself  into  the  room,  or  along  with  Ruth  Colinson, 
and,  kneeling  down,  poured  forth  the  most  beautiful 
extemporaneous  thanksgivings — she  opened  the  Bible, 
and  read  portions  of  our  Saviour's  history,  his  miracles 
and  crucifixion  —  she  put  her  arms  round  Ruth  Colinson's 
neck  and  kissed  her,  for  Ruth  had  comforted  her  day 
and  night  —  and  then  going  into  the  fields  or  orchard 
with  that  affectionate  girl,  she  bounded  along  in  her  glee, 
or,  for  an  hour,  joined  in  the  work  of  the  haymakers, 
now  housing  the  produce  of  the  latest  enclosure  on  the 
hill  side.  If  there  were  a  flower  on  bank  or  in  hedge-row, 
Lucy's  eyes  were  sure  to  detect  it ;  and  she  formed  a 
small  garland,  whose  sweet  smell,  she  said,  would  restore 
her  mother;  for,  "  methinks,  Ruth,  that  your  English 
flowers  have  a  finer  odor  than  even  those  at  Bracken 
Braes;  and  I  must  confess  that  they  are  richer  in  their 
beautiful  colors,  for  here  there  is  mair  shelter —  ay,  it  is 
lowner  far  than  at  Holylee." 

There  had  been  one  Sabbath  only  since  Lucy's  arrival 
at  the  Vicarage,  and  that  was  not  a  day  on  which  it  was 
possible  for  the  afflicted  girl  to  go  to  the  chapel.  But 
she  now  took  Ruth's  arm,  who  leaned  on  her  brother 
Miles,  and  they  proceeded  to  the  pbice  of  worsljip.  For 
awhile,  Lucy  heard  the  bell  tinkling;  but  where,  she 
knew  not;  for  still,  at  every  turning  of  the  path,  as  they 
ascended  or  descended,  the  sound  seemed  to  come  from 
a  different  spot.  Then  the  head  of  the  glen,  which  they 
had  now  reached,  was  quite  filled  with  little  wooded  em- 
inences, some  almost  entirely  rock,  and  others  partly  pas- 
turage—  rent,  obviously,  by  some  natural  convulsion  from 
the  sides  of  the  mountains.  Between  these  eminences 
lay  patches  of  meadow-ground,  watered  by  almost  invisible 
runlets,  proceeding  from  springs,  or  from  the  main  stream 


M 


142  THE    FORESTERS. 

that  wound  its  increasing  way  down  towards  the  Vicar- 
age, and,  finally,  into  Windermere.  Here  Lucy  recog- 
nised woodmen's  huts  such  as  she  had  known  in  the  Hirst 
wood,  but  no  other  habitation.  Well  dressed  people, 
however,  were  issuing  from  all  the  coppices  ;  and  the 
bell  sounding  close  at  hand,  she  lifted  her  eyes  in  that 
direction,  and  there  was  the  beautiful  low-roofed  chapel 
of  Ellesmere,  with  its  white  tower  and  churchyard,  en- 
circled with  the  murmur  of  that  mountain  torrent.  As 
the  bell  ceased  to  tinkle,  the  cry  of  the  kite  was  heard  in 
the  hollow  heavens. 

Lucy  had  never  been  in  any  public  place  of  worship 
but  the  kirk  of  Holylee.  All  that  she  now  saw  and  heard 
was  in  form  very  diiferent,  but  in  spirit  the  same.  This 
small  rural  congregation  had  an  organ  whose  music 
sounded  sweetly  and  solemnly  in  that  lonesome  chapel. 
The  psalm  tunes  were  not  the  same  Lucy  had  been  accus- 
tomed to ;  but  her  fine  ear  taught  her  at  once  to  accom- 
pany Ruth,  and,  with  a  low  and  somewhat  hesitating 
voice,  she  joined  in  those  beautiful  hymns.  Before  the 
worship  was  half  over,  Lucy  gave  to  it  the  whole  religion 
of  her  heart.  She  thought  of  her  mother  rescued  from 
death  ;  of  her  father  sitting  at  that  hour  by  her  bedside  ; 
of  God's  mercies  to  her,  a  helpless  child  ;  and  of  the 
kindness  experienced  from  her  fellow  Christians  at  the 
Vicarage;  and,  with  a  fervent  voice,  did  the  pious  crea- 
ture repeat  every  response  throuahout  the  service. 

An  annual  festival  was  now  at  hand,  called  the  Rush 
Bearing,  for  which  all  the  maidens  in  the  parish  about 
Lucy  ao^  Ruth's  age,  and  indeed  much  younger,  had 
been  making  preparations.  The  origin  of  this  rite,  evi- 
dently of  a  religious  nature,  is  not  distinctly  known  ;  but 
its  celebration  is,  with  good  reason,  supposed  to  be  a 
thanksgiving  for  the  hay  harvest.  It  takes  place  in  most 
districts  of  Westmoreland,  near  the  end  of  July,  when 
the  hay  fields  are  beginning  to  get  green  again  with  the 
after  grass,  and  a  season  almost  of  comparative  inactivity 
intervenes  between  it  and  the  first  week  of  September, 
when  the  corn-fields  are  yellow  for  the  sickle.  Being  a 
sacred  institution,  the  Rush  Bearing,  beautiful  sight  as 


THE    FORESTERS.  143 

it  is,  partakes  of  a  somewhat  solemn  character ;  and  al- 
though no  prayers  are  said,  no  hymns  are  sung,  but  all  is 
silent,  and  the  very  meaning  of  the  rite  obscure,  yet, 
at  its  close,  nothing  like  amusement  or  recreation  occurs, 
nothing  to  break  the  spirit  of  a  ceremonial  which  piously 
regards  the  gratitude  of  the  creature,  and  the  bounty  of 
the  Creator.  « 

In  the  parish  of  Ellesmere,  the  Rush  Bearing  had,  from 
time  immemorial,  been  observed  with  more  than  ordinary 
attention.  The  good  vicar —  which  is  not  usual  in  other 
places — always  took  upon  himself  the  arrangement  of 
the  procession.  The  children  all  met  at  the  Vicarage, 
each  provided  with  her  flower  garland,  dressed  in  white, 
and  adorned  with  ribbands,  whose  colors  gay,  and  some- 
times even  garish,  were,  notwithstanding,  pleasant  to  be- 
hold in  that  infant  band.  Nothing  whatever  was  worn 
on  the  head,  but  every  ringlet  flowed  free  and  unconfined. 
Ranked  according  to  their  height,  the  innocent  creatures 
walked  two  by  two,  with  the  flower  garlands  in  their 
hands;  and  thus  the  procession  moved,  silent  as  a  dream, 
towards  the  solitary  chapel.  Lucy  and  her  cousin  Martha 
walked  side  by  side;  and  it  was  upon  this  day  that  they 
might  be  said  to  have  begun  to  love  one  another  with  a 
sisterly  affection.  Every  heart  was  happy,  it  knew  not 
why,  for  every  child  that  walked  in  that  fair  array  felt  the 
beauty  of  that  whole  of  which  itself  made  part;  and  one 
spirit  of  harmonious  feeling  pervaded  the  living  chain, 
from  the  two  leading  maidens  now  on  the  verge  of  wo- 
manhood, to  the  last  two  small  creatures  of  five  summers, 
who  were  often  scarcely  able  to  keep  up  with.ihe  slow 
pace  of  the  procession.  The  birds  kept  flying  from  bough 
to  bough  as  the  Rush  Bearing  past  through  the  coppice 
woods ;  and  in  every  quiet  pa.sture  the  lambs  frisked 
among  their  knolls.  The  chapel  door  was  open,  and  in 
went  the  quiet  sisterhood  to  deposit  their  flower  garlands 
on  the  pews,  the  pulpit,  and  the  altar. 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  interior  of  the  chapel,  which, 
with  its  dark  oak  furniture,  stained  walls,  and  low  raftered 
roof,  was  perhaps  somewhat  gloomy,  glowed  with  a  thou- 
sand bright  and  gorgeous  colors.     Many  of  the  garlands 


144  THE    FORESTERS. 

had  been  framed  with  much  taste,  of  garden  flowers  both 
rich  and  rare  ;  but  indeed  it  is  not  possible  to  join  to- 
gether a  muhitude  of  blossoms,  and  buds,  and  flowers, 
and  leaves,  without  the  aggregate  being  most  beautiful. 
The  Rush  Bearers  themselves — a  name  originating  in 
another  custom,  now  disused  —  could  not  help  eyeing, 
with  delighted  wonder,  the  splendid  show  of  their  dis- 
tributed garlands;  and  then  arranged  as  before,  they 
reverently  left  the  chapel,  and,  hand  in  hand,  returned  to 
the  Vicarage. 

There,  beneath  the  solemn  shadow  of  that  ancient  yew 
tree,  the  vicar's  wife  had  set  out  tables  of  simple  viands 
—  the  same  tables  at  which  the  merry  haymakers  had 
taken  their  meals.  The  vicar  blessed  the  bread  and 
fruit ;  and  when  the  repast  was  over,  some  of  the  elder 
maidens  sung  a  hymn.  Ruth  Colinson  whispered  to  her 
father,  that  Lucy  would  sing  one  of  the  psalms  used  in 
the  kirk  at  Holylee ;  and  a  leaf  would  have  been  heard 
to  fall  while  she  warbled, 

"  Plaintive  martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name." 

The  sun  was  setting  in  all  his  glory ;  and  Agnes,  who 
was  now  strong  enoutjh  sometimes  to  leave  her  bed,  had 
been  for  a  short  time  sitting  at  the  window,  of  which 
Michael  ventured  to  open  a  few  panes,  just  as  Lucy  began 
to  sing  by  herself  — 

"  The  Lord  's  my  shepherd,  I  '11  not  want. 
He  makes  me  down  to  lie 
.     In  piistuies  green  :  he  leadeth  rae 
The  quiet  waters  by." 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

There  was  now  entire  happiness  within  the  Vicarage 
of  Ellesmere  ;  for  all   the  shadows  of  death  had  disap- 


THE    FOr.ESTERS.  145 

peared,  and  Agnes,  who  had  Iain  so  long  wasted  and 
delirious  in  hopeless  disease,  had  risen  up  in  her  pale  re- 
turning beauty,  and  had  walked  about  the  shaded  pastures, 
both  in  the  morning  and  evening  light.  A  deep  religious 
gratitude  gave  a  still  more  delightful  character  to  those 
eyes,  that  never  smiled  without  inspiring  affection  ;  and 
the  awe  left  by  the  consciousness  ofthe  peril  from  which 
she  had  been  providentially  saved,  breathed  a  mournful 
composure  over  a  deportment  that  was  at  all  times  natu- 
rally sedate,  making  even  the  tones  of  her  speech  sweeter 
and  more  gentle.  Her  husband  had  not  wholly  recovered 
his  usual  undisturbed  demeanor;  yet  everything  lie  said 
or  did  expressed,  to  Mr.  Colinson,  repentance  for  that 
passion  of  grief  that  had  so  utterly  overwhelmed  him, 
and  shewed  that,  on  another  trial,  his  heart  would  proba- 
bly be  more  humble  and  obedient.  But  where  was  Lucy 
in  her  joy  ?  Tell  how  the  linnet  in  spring  passes  every 
hour  in  its  vale  of  sunshine  In  the  gray  dawn,  before 
the  yellow  sunlight  tinged  the  diadem  of  the  elm  grove, 
or  melted  the  veil  of  diamonds  that  lay  over  the  dewy 
sward,  before  the  thrush  had  fed  her  brood,  or  the  young 
swallows  looked  out  from  their  nests  below  the  antique 
cornice,  while  yet  the  kine  were  reposing,  and  the  hare 
sitting  fearless  at  a  distance  from  his  shelter,  lAicy  was 
out  in  the  morning  solitude,  and  forgetting  her  happiest 
dreams  in  the  still  and  shaded  loveliness  that  was  gradu- 
ally brightening  over  heaven  and  earth.  Sometimes, 
even  before  Ruth  Colinson  was  awake,  had  Lucy  been 
by  herself  all  the  way  to  the  chapel,  and  received  kind 
words  from  the  shepherds  going  to  the  mountains.  The 
long  day  glided  by,  she  knew  not  how,  in  various  delights  ; 
and  often  did  she  wonder,  on  looJcing  at  the  sky,  to  see 
that  the  sun  was  indeed  setting  among  his  golden  clouds. 
And  was  Bracken  Braes  forgotten  1  The  green  broomy 
hills  and  treeless  banks  of  Heriot  Water  —  that  one  wood- 
ed linn,  the  howlet's  nest,  and  he  whom  her  heart  had 
so  often  beat  within  her  inmost  bosom  to  meet  there  — 
Edward  Ellis  !  No,  no  —  all  Lucy's  affections  were  true 
to  the  place  of  her  birth  ;  and  sad  although  she  certainly 
13 


146  THE    FORESTEKS. 

would  be  when  the  day  came  —  now  near  at  hand  —  that 
they  must  take  tlieir  departure  from  Ellesmere,  yet  her 
heart  yearned,  at  the  forethought, towards  sweet  Scothind, 
and  there,  among  the  banks  and  braes  where  she  was 
born,  might  she  also  live,  die,  and  be  buried. 

But  this  is  the  morning  of  the  most  beautiful  festival 
that  cheers  the  land  of  lakes,  Windermere  Regatta;  and 
Miles  Colinson,  with  Lucy  and  Ruth,  will  join  in  his 
pinnace  that  Mediterranean  fleet.  As  for  Martha,  she 
■shewed  her  good  sense  and  her  good  feeling  in  preferring 
to  accompany  the  people  from  whom  she  was  about  so 
soon  to  part;  and  Alexander  Ainslie,  who  had  become  a 
prodigious  favorite  at  the  Vicarage,  attended  the  nymphs 
of  the  household  in  his  Scotch  bonnet,  which  he  wore 
with  an  air  of  pride,  as  if  the  object  of  universal  observa- 
tion. So  bound  to  the  Vicarage,  by  love  and  by  fear, 
had  been  the  heart  of  the  affectionate  Lucy  ever  since 
her  arrival  from  Scotland,  that  she  had  never  once  left 
the  vale  of  Ellesmere  —  the  chapel,  and  the  rocks  around 
it,  having  been  the  boundary  of  her  rambles.  One  glance 
of  Windermere  was  all  that  she  had  taken  on  that  troubled 
day,  when  she  was  flying  to  her  mother ;  and  its  beauty 
was  like  a  dim  dream  to  her  imagination.  But  now  the 
party  winded  joyously  up  the  wooded  hills,  and  below  the 
precipices  that  intervened  between  secluded  Ellesmere  and 
the  queen  of  the  lakes;  and  Lucy  promised  not  to  turn 
her  eyes  from  the  scenery  immediately  around  her,  till 
Miles  Colinson  had  conducted  her  to  a  natural  watch- 
tower  at  High  Wray,  built  of  rocks  that  no  lever  could 
have  stirred,  and  with  a  flight  of  steps  that  had  been 
hung  in  air  by  an  earthquake.  Miles  Colinson  then  took 
his  gentle  hand  from  Lucy's  forehead,  while  he  and  Ruth 
watched  the  expression  of  her  countenance  as  Winder- 
mere burst  upon  her  view  —  water,  woods,  air,  and  sky, 
all  blended  together  in  beautiful  and  magnificent  repose. 

The  simple  creature  had  never  known  any  other  world 
than  that  of  Holylee.  That  pastoral  parish  was  to  her 
the  image  of  the  whole  earth.  After  reading  to  her  father 
about  other  countries,  all  thought  of  them  was  laid  aside 
with  the   book,  and  she  saw  and  heard  only  the  scenery 


THE    FORESTERS.  147 

of  her  native  vale.  But  now  Lucy  felt  herself  in  heaven 
—  no  dream,  but  a  reality  enduring  in  its  delight.  The 
bliss  of  novelty,  beyond  all  doubt  or  comparison,  of  every 
bliss  that  the  human  soul  can  know,  the  most  vivid,  lu- 
minous, and  dazzling,  now  possessed  her  whole  being  as 
she  gazed  and  gazed  ;  a  capacity  of  happiness  adequate 
to  the  beauty  for  the  first  time  revealed,  suddenly  unfolded 
itself  within  her  nature,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  wildered 
and  exulting  happiness,  she  wept  to  know  that  her  mother 
had  been  saved  from  death,  and  that  the  Great  Being  who 
stretched  out  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  had  looked  with 
an  eye  of  mercy  on  her  sick  bed,  had  hearkened  to  the 
prayers  of  her,  a  poor  little  child,  and  on  his  throne  had 
guarded  the  footsteps  of  her  blind  father.  "O  Ruth, 
Ruth!  this  is  by  far  the  happiest  day  of  all  my  life;  and 
I  will  think  of  it,  dream  of  it,  every  day  and  every  night, 
as  long  as  I  live,  when  I  am  far,  far  away  in  Scotland." 
But  Ruth  took  her  hand,  without  any  reply,  and  bounding 
together  down  the  mossy  steps,  scattered  the  wild  rose 
leaves,  but  without  startling  the  redbreast  from  its  nest; 
and  then  along  the  sloping  hay  fields  and  old  flowery  leas, 
the  two  happy  creatures  stood  breathless  on  a  little  pier 
that  jutted  into  a,  bay,  and  there  saluted  Miles,  whom  they 
had  absolutely  outrun,  with  a  laugh  of  raillery,  as  he 
handed  them  tripping  into  the  boat,  and  then,  with  vigor- 
ous arm.  made  the  Antelope  of  Ellesmere  glide,  with  her 
broken  shadow,  under  rock,  and  along  level  shore,  till 
she  reached  the  middle  of  the  lake,  and  pointed  her  prow 
towards  the  place  of  rendezvous,  Lowood  Bay,  with  its 
few  sentinel  pine  trees,  and  wooded  mountain,  with  all 
its  peaceful  battlements. 

Lucy  remembered  her  voyage  up  Ullswater ;  but  the 
wind  had  wafted  the  Naiad  so  swiftly  along,  that  she 
scarcely  knew  where  she  was,  till  again  standing  on  the 
shore.  Grief  and  fear  too  had  blinded  and  deafened  her 
to  the  beauty  of  that  morning.  But  now  life  and  joy 
were  one.  The  heaven  smiled  over  her  head;  and  as 
she  looked  down,  there  also  were  the  heavens,  whenever 
the  oars  rested,  and  the  pinnace,  with  its  gaudy  flag  yet 
unfolded,  floated  with  altnost  imperceptible  motion  on  the 


148  TUE    FORESTERS. 

air-like  water.  But  for  the  little  bells  that  went  wavering 
in  myriads  past  the  gunwale,  and  shewed  that  they  were 
on  another  element,  Lucy  could  have  thought  herself 
sailing  through  the  very  skies,  and  a  sort  of  pleasing  fear 
subdued  her  gladness,  when  once  more  the  Antelope  re- 
sumed her  Hight,  and  brought  them  within  hearing  of  the 
merry  music,  becoming  every  moment  more  clear  and 
distinct  from  Lowood  Bay.  "Ay,  there  's  the  Bowness 
band!"  exclaimed  Ruth  ;  how  sweet,  Lucy,  is  the  sound 
of  the  clarionet  and  bugle,  and  does  not  the  hollow  sound 
of  the  great  drum  fill  the  whole  lake  from  Ecclerig- 
Crag  to  Water  Head  !  " 

Just  behind  a  low  pastoral  point,  that,  running  out 
from  a  coppice  wood,  formed  one  of  the  horns  of  a  small 
bay,  that  to  the  careless  eye  was  not  observed  to  be  a  bay 
at  all,  but  thought  to  be  merely  part  of  the  straight  shore, 
was  anchored  in  shallow  water,  and  within  leap  of  the 
silver  sanded  beach,  the  Antelope  of  Ellesmere.  From 
that  station  there  was  not  only  a  view  of  Lowood  Bay, 
distant  a  few  hundred  yards,  but  of  the  lake  down  to 
Belle  Isle,  and  across  to  the  undisturbed  waters  of  Pool- 
wyke,  that  seemed  a  lake  of  themselves,  and  almost  sepa- 
rated in  their  still  seclusion,  from  the  spiri.t  of  festivity  now 
breaking  out  all  along  the  opposite  shore.  Like  appari- 
tions rising  up  from  the  depths  of  the  lake  —  from  whence 
they  came  Lucy  knew  not  nor  could  conjecture  —  many 
a  gaily  painted  pinnace  now  moved  twinkling  over  the 
broad  bosom  of  Windermere,  and  the  echoes  answered  to 
shouts  and  laughter  from  the  merry  crews  striving  in 
amicable  contest.  Lucy  started  to  her  feet  at  the  first 
signal  gun,  which  she  thought  close  to  their  anchorage  ; 
and  the  little  carronade  having  been  placed  on  a  spot 
commanding  a  multitudinous  echo,  it  seemed  as  if,  on 
that  cloudless  sky,  peals  of  thunder  were  rolling  round 
the  whole  circle  of  mountains,  and  more  than  once 
reawakening,  when  all  thought  them  over,  died  faint  and 
afar  off,  beyond  the  blue  skies  of  Lnngdale  Pikes  —  a 
mountain  thnt,  look  where  you  will,  still  forms  part  of  the 
Bcenery  of  Windermere. 

Not   one   lazy   straggler  was   now   seen   out  upon  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  149 

lake  ;  but  the  whole  tiny  fleet  was  moored  around  the 
bay  —  a  bright  and  gorgeous  circle  of  flags  and  awnings- 
The  rowing  boats  now  started  for  the  prize,  and  all  was 
animation  and  enthusiasm.  But  Lucy  was  told  to  look 
away  from  the  race,  towards  Calgarth  and  Millar-ground 
—  for  the  sea  had  sent  its  southern  breezes,  and  the  sail- 
boats, that  had  lain  all  morning  becalmed  in  the  bay  of 
Bowness,  now  loomed  on  the  horizon,  and  stooping  be- 
neath the  winds  that  they  were  bringing  along  with  them 
to  the  stilhiess  of  the  airless  water  of  Lo wood,  soon  shewed 
the  various  splendor  of  their  array,  and  proudly  imparted 
another  character  to  the  whole  festival.  "  There  goes 
the  flying  schooner,  the  Victory,"  said  Miles  Colinson, 
an  enthusiastic  and  skilful  fresh-water  sailor,  "  and  that 
is  the  Endeavor,  with  its  long  white  pendant,  close  upon 
her  stern,  standing  on  the  same  tack.  They  are  going 
nearly  before  the  wind  now,  and,  methinks,  the  Endeavor 
is  about  to  run  foul  of  the  boom  of  her  mainsail ;  but  we 
shall  see  before  evening  which  eats  the  other  out  of  the 
wind,  when  close  hauled,  and  in  the  winds's  eye,  weather- 
ing Seymour  Crag.  Look,  Lucy,  are  they  not  beautiful  t  " 
Beautiful,  indeed,  they  appeared  to  her  eyes  ;  but  their 
beauty  was  as  that  of  living  creatures,  and  their  motion 
as  that  of,  life,  while,  with  wings  white  as  snow,  and  me- 
teors attending  their  course,  they  held  their  undeviating 
progress  towards  the  mountains,  and  apparently  without 
any  guidance  but  that  of  their  own  spirit,  went  gliding  by 
the  hanging  groves  and  woods.  "  'Auld  Langsyne,'  as  I 
live!"  exclaimed  Lucy.  And,  as  the  cloud  of  sail  car- 
ried away  that  melancholy  music,  the  Scottish  maiden 
was,  for  a  moment,  at  Bracken  Braes,  sitting  beneath  the 
plane  tree,  and  the  Heriot  Water  murmuring  along  the  wil- 
low haugh,  down  to  the  linn  and  the  Manse  of  Holylee. 
Apart  from  the  bay  and  all  its  beautiful  confusion,  yet 
near  enotigh  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  festival,  the 
crew  of  the  Antelope  remained  with  her  during  all  the 
boat  races,  at  their  quiet  anchorage.  But  Miles  Colin- 
son  now  weighed  anchor,  and  Lucy  took  her  seat  at  the 
stern,  while  Ruth  relieved  the  flag  from  its  staff,  proud 
13* 


150  THE    FORESTERS. 

of  the  emblazoning  which  their  joint  needlework  had 
formed  during  the  long  evenings  below  the  yew  tree. 
"  We  must  take  our  place  in  the  grand  aquatic  proces- 
sion," Slid  Miles,  with  a  smile  ;  "  but  I  must  take  care 
not  to  run  down  the  Nil  Timeo,  the  ten-oared  barge  of 
the  Windermere  Sailing  Club."  Much  brandishing  and 
splashing  of  oars  there  was,  before  both  lines  were  formed, 
and  the  "  grand  aquatic  procession  "  moved  in  the  sun- 
shine over  the  dark  blue  waters,  as  if  some  doughty  Doge 
were  about  to  wed  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.  Tiie  crew  of 
each  boat,  doubtless,  thought  her  the  brightest  star  in 
that  moving  constellation ;  and  so  occupied  were  all  the 
rowers  and  their  companies  with  their  nice  and  difficult 
duties,  that  it  was  only  now  and  then  that  the  sail-boats 
attracted  notice,  when  bearing  down,  with  a  freshened 
breeze,  upon  the  procession  returning  to  its  anchorage 
in  the  form  of  a  crescent.  They  tacked  suddenly,  just 
when  about  to  break  the  line,  and  bore  away  majestically 
before  the  wind,  with  their  bands  playing  "  Rule  Britan- 
nia," or  "  God  save  the  King." 

"  Ruth,  Ruth,"  exclaimed  Lucy,  "  there  is  bonny  Aga- 
tha Marshall,  who  was  so  kind  to  me  at  her  father's  house 
on  the  banks  of  that  other  lake;"  and  tlie  two  boats 
were  now  so  close  together  that  Lucy  and  Agatha  shook 
hands  across  their  gunwales,  and  then  again  in  a  moment, 
were  separate<l  by  an  oar  length  of  foamy  water.  By  this 
time,  Lucy  had  become  quite  a  bold  sailor :  and,  taking 
off  her  bonnet,  that  she  might  behold  the  spectacle  on  all 
sides,  down  fell  her  clustering  ringlets  in  a  shower  of 
sunbeams  over  her  cheeks  and  neck ;  and  never  had  the 
Cambridge  scholar  beheld  in  imagination  so  bright  a 
figure  of  an  Hour,  a  Grace,  or  a  Nereid,  as  that  fair  Scot- 
tish sheplierde.'^s,  now  gazing  on  him  with  smiles  of  be- 
wildered happiness.  Like  an  hour,  too,  she  was  to  pass 
away  ;  and,  although  unforgotten,  yet  to  return  never, 
never  m<ire.  But  the  horns  of  the  crescent  had  touched 
Lowood  Bay  —  a  hundred  oars  rose  into  the  air  —  the 
boats  were  again  anchored  or  drawn  up  to  the  beach  — 
the  whole  fleet  deserted  by  their  crews —  and  the  shores 


THE    FORESTERS.  151 

alive,  from  the  water  edge  to  the  knolls  below  tiie  wooded 
Scaur  where  the  hawks  inhabit. 

Lucy  sought  anxiously,  through  the  moving  crowd,  for 
Agatha  Marshall ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  recog- 
nised each  other.  The  Colinsons  and  Marshalls  were 
not  altogether  strangers,  and  the  two  parties  agreed  to 
retire  from  the  stir  and  bustle  of  the  scene,  and  have  a 
repast  in  some  quiet  glade  within  reach  of  the  lake 
breezes.  Miles  soon  recollected  a  fit  spot,  half  way  be- 
tween Lowood  and  Ecclerig  ;  and  a  crowd  of  remem- 
brances came  over  Lucy's  mind,  when,  in  a  few  minutes, 
they  sat  down  upon  the  bank  of  a  charcoal  pit,  within  a 
wood  that  had  been  thinned  that  very  spring — so  per- 
fectly like  the  Hirst  wood,  where  her  father  lost  his  sight 
in  that  thunder  storm.  Agatha,  Lucy,  and  Ruth,  were 
all  intimate  friends  in  a  few  minutes;  and  Lucy's  eyes 
beamed  with  joy  to  hear  that  the  lieutenant  had  been 
most  prosperous  in  his  late  cruise,  and  was  now  quite  a 
rich  man.  "  They  say  we  are  to  have  peace  soon,  and 
then  my  brother  will  live  with  us  at  Seathwaite  Hall,  and 
we  shall  get  regattas  of  our  own  on  Ullswater  ;  Lucy  For- 
ester will  surely  visit  her  friends  again  —  and  I  do  not 
despair  of  seeing  her  with  us  long  before  —  I  am  married." 

Mirth  and  merriment  soon  grew  general,  but  never 
loud,  over  that  sylvan  saloon.  In  an  hour  or  two,  the 
heron,  that  had  been  disturbed  by  uimsual  clamor,  was 
seen  returning  from  Rydal  woods,  with  wings  moving  not 
quicker  than  oars,  and  his  flight  gradually  descending 
nearer  and  nearer  the  water,  as  he  kept  approaching  his 
nest  on  Roiigh-holm,  by  the  deserted  bay  of  Ray-rigg. 
The  wind,  too,  was  dying  away,  as  the  sun  declined 
westward  ;  and  here  and  there  a  boat,  with  elderly  people 
and  children  taking  an  early  farewell  of  the  revelries, 
crawled  almost  reluctantly  homewards  along  the  sleeping 
lake,  that  was  spread  with  deepening  shadows.  Inde- 
pendently of  the  umbrage  of  the  forest  boughs,  the  air 
was  cooler,  although  calmer  ;  and  the  butterflies,  that  had 
enjoyed  tint  day  of  light,  had  all  settled  down  upon  the 
wild  fl  >wers.  "  Part  we  must  not  without  some  iScottish 
music,"  was  the  feeling  of  all  the  party ,  and  Lucy,  who 


152  THE    FORESTERS. 

never  in  all  her  life  had  been  asked  twice  to  do  anything 
she  could  do,  warbled  the  wildest  and  most  mournful 
spirit  of  the  genius  of  her  country.  There  were  wet  eyes 
during  some  of  those  airs;  for  worthy,  indeed,  were  they 
of  tears,  sung  as  they  now  were  by  one  to  whom  nature 
had  taught  the  music  of  the  heart,  in  whose  sorrow  inno- 
cence rejoices  amidst  the  pauses  of  its  gladness,  and  then 
returns  more  happy  to  its  own  living  world.  It  seemed, 
as  she  sung,  that  the  composure  of  the  soul  within  her 
almost  sobered  the  golden  gleam  above  her  forehead,  and 
touched  with  paleness  the  roses  of  her  cheek.  Fair 
moved  the  bosom  of  one  not  yet  woman  grown,  while 
those  liquid  murmurs  left  her  lips  apart  in  their  beauty  ; 
and  when,  at  the  close  of  the  tune,  every  tongue  and  eye 
applauded,  Lucy  soon  recovered  all  her  gladsome  smiles. 
and  lifted  up  from  the  sward  eyes  that  looked  as  if  they 
could  express  no  other  emotion  than  that  of  rejoicing 
happiness. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

The  stay  of  the  Foresters  at  the  Vicarage  of  Elles- 
mere  had  been  protracted  some  time  beyond  the  almost 
perfect  recovery  of  Agnes,  by  mutual  friendship  of  a  very 
deep  and  endearing  character.  Distress  and  sympathy 
had  opened  up  and  exhibited  the  recesses  of  each  other's 
hearts,  and  that  two  months'  visit  had  made  revelation  of 
feelings  which  might  have  lain  concealed  during  a  whole 
life.  But  the  day  of  parting  had  come  at  last.  The  vi- 
car, his  wife,  and  his  son  and  daughters,  had  accompanied 
their  beloved  guests  as  far  as  Seathwaite  Hall,  on  Ulls- 
water,  and  the  final  farewell  had  thus  been  less  melan- 
choly than  if  it  had  taken  place  at  the  door  of  their  own 
dwelling.  Michael  parted  from  a  friend  in  Mr.  Colinson 
whom  he  held  dearer  than  he  supposed  he  could  have 
done  any  new  acquaintance  at  his  time  of  life,  when  the 


THE    FOUESTERS.  153 

heart  is  contented  with  affections  of  old  standing,  and  is 
slow  to  expand  itself  fully  nnder  the  power  of  any  fresh 
attachment.  The  admirable  character  of  the  vicar  —  one 
of  the  most  modest,  humble,  and  unassuming  of  men  — 
had  betrayed  itself  unconsciously,  in  many  simple  traits, 
almost  every  day  after  their  friendship  was  a  week  old; 
and  Michael, —  who,  at  first,  scarcely  understood  how  to 
reconcile  Mr.  Colinson's  zeal  in  secular  concerns  with 
such  a  religious  spirit  as  his  sacred  profession  demanded, 
and  wondered  a  little  at  his  manual  labors  in  the  hay  field 
and  the  barn  —  ere  long  discerned  that  the  reconcilement 
of  custom  can,  without  moral  injury,  blend  together  pur- 
suits elsewhere  deemed  repugnant,  and  acknowledged 
that  the  life  of  a  good  man  ought  not  to  be  tried  by  any 
other  test  than  the  consistency  of  its  own  condition.  In 
Scotland,  Michael  Forester  was  aware  that  no  clergyman 
could  engage  personally  in  rural  toils,  almost  like  a  hind, 
without  loss  of  character  and  implied  degradation  of 
mind;  but,  in  Ellesmere,  the  spirit  of  the  clerical  life  had 
for  ages  been  of  this  homely  and  primitive  kind.  Even 
in  dress,  the  vicar,  he  was  told  by  Agnes,  was  but  little 
distinguished  from  the  respectable  householders  around; 
and,  clad  as  he  was,  throughout  the  week,  in  gray,  she 
confessed  that  she  had  never  completely  felt  that  he  was 
a  clergyman  till  the  first  Sabbath,  when,  walking  to  the 
chapel,  he  appeared  just  like  Mr.  Kennedy  at  Holylee  — 
more  dignified  and  impressive  it  might  be,  from  the  con- 
trast of  his  usual  homeliness  of  dress  and  manner  ;  but, 
in  good  truth,  pach  member  of  the  family  at  the  Vicarage 
was  alike  estimable.  Although  far  inferior,  both  in  men- 
tal and  corporeal  gifts,  to  Agnes,  yet  Mrs.  Colinson  was 
a  woman  without  guile,  and  of  a  truly  Christian  spirit. 
She  had  borne  many  afflictions,  that  had  never  fallen  to 
the  lot  of  Agnes,  with  unrcpining  resignation.  No  hu- 
man being  ever  worshipped  her  Maker  more,  in  spirit  and 
in  truth,  than  did  she,  every  Sabbath,  in  that  little  chapel. 
Her  charities  were  like  the  night  dews  —  felt,  not  seen  ; 
and  one  good  deed  was  by  her  forgotten  in  another;  her 
whole  life  being  passed  in  a  quiet  succession  of  kind- 
nesses towards  her  fellow  creatures.     Ruth,  her  sole  sur 


154  THE    FORESTERS. 

viving  daughter,  was  also  the  flower  of  all  the  flock,  and 
allowed  to  be  the  sweetest  and  the  prettiest  girl  in  Elles- 
mere ;  and  Miles,  who  had  already  distinguished  himself 
at  Cambridge,  both  in  classical  literature  and  science, 
reminded  the  elder  statesmen  in  the  neighboring  vales  of 
his  uncle,  Joshua  Colinson,  formerly  curate  of  Wansfield, 
whose  fame  as  a  mathematician  and  divine  still  survived 
in  those  obscure  and  remote  places,  whither  he  had  re- 
tired in  the  prime  of  life,  and  where  he  had  died,  in  igno- 
ble but  useful  retirement,  in  a  green  old  age.  But  the 
Foresters  were  far  away  from  the  Vicarage  now  ;  and  had 
returned,  all  safe  and  well,  to  Bracken  Braes. 

If  tears  had  blinded  Lucy's  eyes  as  they  stole  a  last 
glance  of  Ellesmere,  it  is  not  to  be  thought  that  they 
were  dry  when,  once  more,  she  beheld  the  spire  of  Holy- 
lee  kirk.  As  they  passed  the  Manse,  her  heart  beat  wild- 
ly ;  for  there  was  Edward  Ellis,  with  a  kindly  smile,  and 
a  look  of  rejoicing  salutation.  Aunt  Isobel  was  on  the 
look-out  for  them  below  the  plane  tree;  and,  after  the 
first  weeping  embrace  was  over,  and  all  had  time  to  feel 
that  the  roof  of  Bracken  Braes  was  indeed  over  them 
once  more,  Michael  gave  thanks  to  the  Almighty  for 
bringing  them  all  out  of  their  late  tribulation.  Little  or 
no  change  was  visible  in  the  rooms;  as  far  as  their  faith- 
ful memory  served,  everything  was  in  its  usual  place  — 
untouched,  yet  free  from  dust.  The  old  clock,  that  had 
rest  while  Aunt  Isobel  sojourned  in  the  Manse,  now  tick- 
ed with  all  its  power  ;  a  few  books  lay  on  the  broad  wood- 
en chimney-piece,  and  Lucy  remembered  the  very  passage 
she  had  been  reading  that  day  the  letter  came  from  Mr. 
Colinson  about  her  mother's  illness;  the  barking  glee  of 
the  two  sheplierd  dogs  was  over,  and  the  creatures  sat 
each  at  its  own  side  of  the  fire,  glad  of  the  return;  and 
there  was  the  speckle-breasted  mavis,  in  his  cheerful  pris- 
on, aware  that  it  was  Lucy's  white  hand  that  now  ran  its 
fingers  along  the  wicker-bars.  The  seasons  at  Bracken 
Braes  were  not  so  early  as  at  Ellesmere.  It  was  not 
above  a  week  ago  since  the  first  swathe  of  grass  had  fall- 
en before  the  scythe.  "  To-morrow,"  said  William  Laid- 
law,  "  the  rakers  will  be  all  in  the  haugh,  and  I  am  mis- 


THE    FOKESTERS.  155 

taen  if  ye  hae  seen  or  heard  o'  a  heavier  crop  in  ony  part 
o'  Eiighind."  —  "  Stupid  creatures  !  "  quoth  Isobel,  "  not 
one  o'  you  can  speak  a  word  o'  Englisli ;  ye  hae  a'  the 
Scottish  accent  sae  strong  that  it  is  just  perfectly  vulgar. 
Coukhia  the  vicar,  as  you  call  hiai,or  his^son  the  student, 
have  taught  you  a  mair  refined  discourse?  You  '11  be  a' 
Episcopals,  1  doubt  not?  And  what '11  you  think  o'  the 
kirk  o'  Holylee,  in  comparison  wi'  that  chapel  o'  Elles- 
mere  that  Lucy  wrote  me  so  long  a  letter  about,  wi'  its 
organ,  and  hymns,  and  printed  prayers?"  But  Aunt 
Isobel  now  spoke  to  those  who  understood  all  her  pecu- 
liar modes  of  speech,  and  knew  how  rightly  to  interpret 
its  meanings.  Every  Sabbath  had  she,  sitting  in  the  kirk 
of  Holylee,  thought  of  them  in  the  chapel  of  Ellesmere ; 
and,  whatever  differences  there  might  be  in  their  forms 
of  worship,  and  solemnly  attached  as  she  was  to  her  own 
simple  form  of  faith,  deeply  did  she  feel  that,  wherever  a 
few  were  gathered  together  in  sincerity,  God  would  be  in 
the  midst  of  them,  and  mercifully,  as  he  thought  fitting, 
grant  their  prayers. 

Aunt  Isobel  scrutinized  Martha,  the  orphan,  with 
kind  but  keen  eyes,  and  asked  and  answered  a  hundred 
questions.  She  was  much  pleased  with  Martha's  plain, 
quiet,  and  sensible  manners,  and  declared  that  she 
would  have  known  her  to  be  her  father's  child  had  she 
met  her  at  Japan.  "  Ay,  ay,  my  good  Martha,  you  have 
been  a  hard-working  lassie,  they  tell  me  ;  and  hae  worked, 
too,  a'  your  days,  for  them  that  were  not  o'  your  ain 
blood  ;  but  you'll  lead  a  different  life,  my  bairn,  at 
Bracken  Braes,  and  we'll  a'  use  you  as  kindly  as  we  do 
Lucy  herself  O  Agnes  !  don't  you  see  the  very  glint 
o'  poor  Abel's  eye  there  ;  and  there,  too,  the  self  same 
dimples  that  showed  themselves  in  ilka  cheek  whenever 
he  laughed,  which  was  often  and  often,  in  the  shortest 
day;  for  a  merrier  man  than  Abel  Forester  never  saner 
at  his  work  beneath  heaven's  sunshine." 

In  a  very  few  days,  Martha  was  quite  at  home  at 
Bracken  Braes.  She  felt,  with  gratitude,  that  the  kind 
promises  that  had  been  made  to  her  before  she  left  West- 
moreland had  been  more  than  realized.     At  meals,  at  all 


156  THE    FOEESTEKS. 

their  fireside  work  or  leisure,  at  prayers,  in  bed,  (for  she 
slept  with  Lucy,)  the  once  neglected  or  oppressed  orphan 
now  felt  herself  taken  within  the  affection  of  many  excel- 
lent hearts,  and  gradually  becoming  familiar  with  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  whose  existence  she  had  formerly  known 
nothiniT,  but  that  found  out  corresponding  chords  in  her 
own  nature.  Pleased  with  herself,  thankful  to  her  Maker, 
every  day  more  and  more  attached  to  all  the  family,  and 
naturally  fond  of  work  and  averse  to  all  idleness,  Martha 
was  soon  thought  quite  a  treasure,  and  her  character  be- 
gan to  stand  high  in  the  parish.  The  hay  harvest  went 
on  apace;  and  Martha,  although  at  first  a  little  puzzled 
with  the  Scotch  fashion,  soon  distinguished  herself  by  her 
perseverance  and  activity.  Jacob  Mayne  declared  she 
was  worth  her  weight  in  gold,  and  held  her  up  as  a  pat- 
tern to  his  own  daughters,  who,  it  must  be  confessed, 
were  somewhat  indolent,  and  afraid  of  the  sun  tanning 
their  skin,  and  hurting  the  delicacy  of  their  complexion. 
Good  humor,  contentment,  and  a  willingness  to  do  one's 
best,  are  prime  qualities  in  the  character  of  a  cottage 
girl ;  and,  although  Martha  was  no  beauty,  yet  they  gave 
a  pleasing  expression  to  ordinary  enough  features;  and, 
except  Lucy  herself,  no  one,  at  the  close  of  the  week, 
was  more  admired  in  the  haugh. 

Few  states  of  life  are  more  delightful  than  the  calm 
and  tranquil  return  into  old  dear  familiar  habits,  even 
although  they  may  have  been  interrupted  by  a  change  in 
itself  perfectly  happy.  Michael's  feet  knew  well  all  the 
ground  about  Bracken  Braes,  and,  after  the  necessary 
confinement  of  a  new  kind  of  scenery  at  Ellesmere,  he 
now  felt  an  enlargement  of  mind  in  the  greater  freedom 
of  motion  in  all  his  limbs;  again  the  day  was  subdivided 
in  a  way  that  had  long  been  habitual  to  him  ;  and  all  the 
ongoings  of  his  farm  told  him  perpetuaJly  where  the  sun 
stood  in  heaven.  Once  more,  too,  he  had  taken  his 
place  as  an  elder  below  the  pulpit ;  Mr.  Kennedy's  voice 
was  even  pleasanter  to  his  ear  than  before  —  no  dispar- 
agement to  the  reading  of  the  good  vicar  ;  and  thorough- 
ly as  he  had  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  service  of  the 
Church  of  England,  yet  to  him  the  sanctifying  power  of 


THE    FORESTERS.  157 

years  lay  upon  his  own  form  of  worship.  Agnes  had 
never  lioped  to  see  Bracken  Braes  more,  and  to  her  it 
was  dearer  —  more  beautiful  than  ever;  while  Lucy, 
convincino  herself,  with  many  a  sitrh,  that  she  must  never 
hope  to  be  at  Ellesmere  again,  except  in  a  dream,  cher- 
ished the  remembrance  of  all  its  loveliness,  without  losing 
any  of  her  attachment  to  the  sweet  place  of  her  nativity. 
Bare,  naked,  and  bleak  it  was,  no  doubt,  in  comparison 
with  that  English  valley;  but,  in  spring  and  in  summer, 
what  place,  in  its  own  way,  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  vale  of  Heriot  Water,  all  the  way  down  from  Lady- 
side  to  Holylee  ? 


CHAPTER    X  X  V  1 1 1 . 

There  were  two  causes  of  distress  to  Lucy,  soon  after 
her  return  from    Westmoreland  ;   her  two  dearest  friends 

—  the  highest  and  the  lowest  —  Emma  Cranstoun  of  the 
Hirst,  and  Mary  Morrison  of  Ewebauk,  were  both  ill  in 
health  and  depressed  in  spirit.  Mary  had  only  once  been 
over  a\  Bracken  Braes  for  a  single  hour,  and  Lucy  had 
but  once  visited  her  in  return.  Bolh  times  the  poor 
creature's  eyes  had  seemed  red  with  weeping;  and  when 
a  smile  crossed  her  face,  it  was  more  woeful  than  any 
other  expression.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  Lucy's,  as  if 
she  had  some  secret  to  reveal  and  confide  to  her  affec- 
tion ;  but  then  would  turn  away  in  ghastly  silence,  and 
even  cover  her  face  with  her  hands,  or  for  a  while  dis- 
appear. Lucy  knew  that  she  had  a  harsh  father,  but 
there  seemed  now  about  Mary  Morrison  a  deeper  distress 
than  could  arise  from  that  cause,  which  had  always  ex- 
isted the  same,  and   Mary  herself  said  —  "I  canna  speak. 

—  I  daurna  speak  —  but  my  heart  is  broken,  Lucy,  and 
before  winter  I  may  be  in  my  grave,  and  my  soul  called 
to  judgment."     Lucy  breathed  not  a  word  to  her  parents 

14 


158  ,  THE    FORESTERS. 

or  Aunt  Isobel  of  Mary's  melancholy  state  of  mind;  but 
determined  to  persuade  her  friend,  whom  she  loved  more 
tenderly  thnn  ever,  to  tell  her  what  secret  misery  was 
preying  upon  her  life. 

On  her  visit  to  the  Hirst,  at  the  earnest  request  of 
the  Lady  herself,  Lucy  was,  if  possible,  even  more  dis- 
tressed by  her  appearance  than  by  that  of  Mary  Morrison. 
Emma  Cranstoun,  who,  only  a  few  weeks  ago,  leaped  so 
lightsomely  from  her  palfrey  at  the  cottage  doors,  was 
lying  on  a  couch  so  faint  and  languid,  that  she  did  not 
rise  up  on  Lucy's  entrance  into  the  room,  but  stretched 
out  her  hand,  which  felt  hot  and  feverish,  as  Lucy  kissed 
it  with  tears  of  aflection.  "  My  old  malady  has  come 
back,  my  friend  ;  and  I  fear  it  must  be  called  a  consump- 
tion. Yet  I  am  not  in  that  cheerful  frame  of  mind  which 
it  is  said  consumptive  persons  go  with  to  the  very  grave. 
No,  my  sweet  Lucy,  my  heart  is  disquieted  within  me, 
and  I  fear  to  die.  Much  have  I  longed  for  your  return: 
yet  now  that  I  see  you,  I  am  too  weak  both  in  mind  and 
body  to  enjoy  your  presence  as  I  always  used  to  do.  But 
sit  still  —  do  not  go  away." 

Lucy  Forester  loved  Mary  Morrison,  as  two  innocent 
and  humble  creatures  love  each  other,  in  equal  condition 
of  lowliness.  But  with  her  love  for  the  Lady  of  the 
Hirst  was  blended  that  admiration  —  that  reverence  with 
which  a  guileless  child  of  poor  estate  will  naturally  re- 
gard a  high-born  and  beautiful  benefactress.  From  her 
father's  cottage  had  she  come  with  all  humility  into  the 
drawing-room  of  that  old  hail.  Surrounded  with  all  the 
elegancies  —  even  splendors  of  rank  —  little  as  she  was 
known  to  value  them  —  now  lay  with  a  deep  hectic  flush 
upon  her  cheeks,  and  with  eyes  of  a  brilliancy  that 
pained  Lucy's  heart  she  knew  not  why,  the  lady  whom 
all  the  country  loved.  For  Mary  Morrison  Lucy  would 
have  watched  night  after  night  —  for  her  would  she  fear- 
lessly have  walked  over  mountains  and  moors,  in  the  frost 
and  snow  of  winter  midnights  ;  but  for  the  Lady  of  the 
Hirst,  she  felt  that  she  was  ready  to  die  on  a  moment's 
warning — willing  to  leave  father,  and  mother,  and  all, 
so  that  she  might  purchase  life  for  Emma  Cranstoun. 


THE    FORESTKUS.  159 

That  one  so  good,  so  pure,  so  beautiful  bej'ond  compare, 
so  charitable,  and  so  relirrioiis,  and  so  far  superior  in  all 
her  looks,  words,  and  motions,  to  everybody  else  she  had 
ever  seen  — that  such  a  being  should  die,  was  a  thought 
too  dreadful  to  be  endured  —  even  although  Lucy  well 
knew  that,  were  it  to  be  so,  it  would  be  an  instant  change 
from  earth  to  heaven.  # 

"  Lucy,  I  have  more  comfort  in  your  presence  even 
than  in  Mr.  Kennedy's,  excellent  Christian  as  he  is,  and 
kind  to  me,  as  if  1  were  his  own  daughter.  Oh!  sweet  — 
heavenly  sweet  were  the  sounds  of  that  psalm,  the  first 
evening  I  ever  was  at  Bracken  Braes  !  1  must  get  you 
to  sing  it  to  me  on  my  death-bed."  Lucy  laid  her  head 
on  the  couch  and  wept ;  but  suddenly  a  cheering  comfort 
came,  she  knew  not  whence,  into  her  heart.  "  I  will 
sing  you  every  psalm,  every  hymn  T  know —  but  not  on 
your  death-bed,  lady  —  for  you  will  recover,  and  ride 
about  the  braes  as  you  used  to  do,  blessing  the  houses  of 
the  poor!"  —  "Read  these  letters,  Lucy,  and  tell  me 
what  you  thmk  ;  remember  the  eye  of  God  is  at  all  times 
on  his  creatures,  and  speak  the  truth." 

Little  did  Lucy  Forester  know  of  this  world  —  little  of 
its  awful  or  its  mean  mysteries  —  but  these  miserable  let- 
ters altogether  shocked  and  baffled  her  reason.  In  them 
the  weak  or  wicked  writer  told  Emma  Cranstoun  that 
she  was  assuredly  dying  —  that  her  mother  and  sisters  had 
all  died  of  consumption,  which  was  hereditary  in  the 
family  —  that  Mr.  Kennedy  knew  nothing  of  the  spirit  of 
the  Gospel  promises,  and  that  she  ought  to  call  in  to  the 
aid  of  her  soul  some  very  different  minister  of  Christ, 
before  it  was  too  late,  for  that  after  death  cometh  judg- 
ment!  Lucy  felt  an  indiscribable  horror  of  such  a  cruel 
and  merciless  communication  ;  and,  weak  and  ignorant 
child  as  she  was,  there  was  a  power  in  her  unperverted 
conscience  that  appealed,  in  a  few  simple  words,  to  the 
quaking  heart  of  her  benefactress.  "  Oh  !  best  of  all 
ladies  that  ever  brought  the  blessing  of  their  presence 
across  the  threshold  of  the  poor,  what  sins  and  iniquities 
can  you  have  to  repent  of — what  evil  thought  did  your 
bosom  ever  conceive  —  what  evil  word  did  your  lips  ever 


160  THE    FORESTEKS. 

Utter  —  what  evil  deed  did  your  hands  ever  perform? 
Can  my  father,  and  my  mother,  and  Mr.  Kennedy,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  parish,  be  in  the  wrong, 
who  all  bless  your  name,  and  count  them  happy  days 
since  you  came  to  live  at  the  Hirst?  No  doubt  we  are 
all  frail,  all  fallen,  all  corrupt.  The  Bible  tells  us  that  — 
but  the  Bible  tells  us  that  ijjjere  is  a  Savior;  and  if  you 
will  let  me,  1  will  read  you  some  chapters  that  will  set 
your  heart  at  rest." 

Who  may  be  a  wiser  interpreter  of  many  of  the  doc- 
trines of  Christianity  than  an  innocent  and  guileless 
maiden,  who  has  been  brought  up  at  the  knee  of  a  father 
whom  religion  had  reconciled  to  a  sore  distress  ?  May 
such  a  one  not  explain  the  spirit  of  those  passages,  whose 
celestial  beauty  has  brought  heaven  upon  her  midnight 
dreams?  Meanings  perhaps  too  fine  and  pure  for  the 
comprehension  of  strongest  minds,  polluted  or  deadened 
by  worldly  pursuits,  may  become  familiarly  known  to 
such  a  reader  in  her  simplicity,  and  flow  in  eloquence 
from  her  lips,  when  her  heart  is  touched  at  once  with 
devotion  to  her  Maker,  and  love  for  a  fallen  creature 
united  to  her  in  congenial  innocence.  The  eye  of  such 
a  meek  and  humble  one  falls,  as  if  by  a  sacred  instinct, 
on  the  promises  of  redeeming  mercy.  If  fear  and  awe 
mingle  with  her  love,  it  is  but  to  chasten  it  into  a  solemn 
holiness.  The  affection  she  bears  to  her  father  on  earth 
is  transferred  to  her  Father  in  heaven,  but  more  tender, 
still  more  overpowering,  more  full  of  trust  —  now  indeed 
piety  !  Then  the  Word  of  God  ex|)Iains  itself —  there  is 
light  upon  every  page  ;  and  the  young  Christian,  indeed, 
enjoys  a  revelation  ! 

Emma  Cranstoun,  in  the  despondency  of  disease,  and 
the  solitariness  of  that  old  mansion,  had  kept  those  per- 
nicious letters  below  her  pillow,  and  read  them  so  often, 
that  a  belief  began  to  settle  in  her  heart  that  their  con- 
tents were  full  of  fearful  truths,  and  that  they  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  written  by  a  truly  religious  spirit,  in 
pity  of  her  lost  state.  But  the  sound  of  Lucy's  voice  — 
so  earnest  in  her  affection  and  simplicity  —  dispelled  the 
horrid  dream;  she   allowed   herself  to  be  persuaded  that 


THE    FOREStERS.  161 

Mr.  Kennedy  knew  what  Christianity  was  far  better  than 
the  writer  of  such  letters  ;  and  having  got  the  better  of 
worse  fears,  she  began  to  hope  tiiat  perhaps  the  fear  of 
death  might  be  premature,  and  that  God  would  yet  spare 
her  Jife  for  a  few  years. 

For  how  could  life  be  otlierwise  than  dear  to  Emma 
Cranstoun — young,  good,y)eautifuI,  and  rich,  both  in 
natural  endowments  and  the  gifts  of  fortune?  She  had 
an  eye  to  see  the  loveliness  of  earth  and  heaven  —  feel- 
ing, fancy,  and  imagination  to  enjoy  and  to  create  enjoy- 
ment. Whatever  happiness  a  human  being  might  derive 
from  this  world,  and  its  allowed  affections,  she  might 
well  hope  to  share ;  and  to  shut  her  eyes  for  ever  upon 
it  all,  was  a  rueful  thought,  and  hard  to  be  borne.  But 
she  wished  still  more  earnestly  to  live,  that  she  might  do 
good,  and  practice  the  precepts  of  her  faith.  All  these 
desires  blended  together  in  her  prayers;  and  although 
sometimes  she  upbraided  herself  with  too  worldly  a  love 
of  life,  at  other  seasons  she  felt  assured  that  her  yearning 
after  the  good  of  her  fellow  creatures  was  sincere —  and 
sincere  too,  in  as  far  as  the  frailty  of  her  nature  could  allow 
her  conviction  that  there  was  no  virtue  but  in  obedience 
to  the  will  of  God.  Sickness,  such  as  her's,  sometimes 
elevates  and  sometimes  depresses  the  spirit;  but  it  needs 
the  comfort  of  human  love  ;  and  that,  in  her  case,  was 
found  in  Lucy  Forester.  ''  I  never  sleep,  Lucy,  at  least 
seldom  two  hours  together,  and  the  nitrhts  are  weary  long  ! 
but  if  I  had  you  in  the  room,  methinks  1  should  have 
pleasant  slumbers."  —  "Me  in  the  room,  my  beloved 
lady!  My  mother  is  well  now;  and  I  have  a  cousin,  you 
know,  at  Bracken  Braes,  to  take  my  place  in  the  house. 
I  beseech  you,  let  me  lie  beside  you,  or  on  the  floor  close 
to  your  bed ;  a  whisper  will  awake  me  ;  and,  in  a  short 
time  —  in  a  week  or  a  month  at  the  longest — you  will 
be  as  well  as  ever ;  for,  O  lady,  what  mortal  creature  can 
do  without  sleep,  and  not  faint  both  in  body  and  in  soul  1" 

Some  slight  opposition  was  made  to  the  arrangement 
by  an  old  lady,  a  relation   of  Emma's,   who  had   been  a 
sort  of  guardian  to  her  since  her  father's  death  —  not  the 
14* 


162  THE    FOKESTERS. 

most  judiciously  chosen  in  tlie  world  ;  but  it  was  at  once 
overruled  ;  and  a  bed  being  n)ade  for  Lucy,  by  that  of 
her  gracious  mistress,  it  was  fixed,  by  a  message  to 
Bracken  Braes,  that  she  should  remain  a  month  at  the 
Hirst,  the  friend  of  Enmia  Cranstoun  —  so  said  the  lady 
herself;  but  Lucy  called  herself  by  another  name  —  not 
even  companion,  but  servant ;  and  in  that  name  she  re- 
joiced with  an  humble  pride. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

The  duties  which  Lucy  now  daily  and  hourly  discharg- 
ed, were  to  her  so  truly  delightful,  and  so  entirely  occu- 
pied her  whole  capacity  of  alTection,  that  it  may  almost 
be  said  her  heart  was  away  from  Bracken  Braes,  and 
bound  to  the  Hirst  by  a  spirit  of  homefelt  happiness. 
Her  love  to  her  parents  was  so  vital,  that,  like  the  beat- 
ings of  that  heart,  it  went  on  unconsciously  ;  nor  was  the 
innocent  creature  afraid  or  ashamed  even  occasionally  to 
forget  tlipm,  knowing  well  that  they  were  dearer  to  her 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  From  infancy  she  had 
loved,  honored,  and  obeyed  them;  and,  since  their  re- 
turn from  Westm(^reland,  she  felt  that  their  affection  for 
her  had,  if  possible,  increased.  More  than  once  they 
had  alluded  to  her  flight  to  Ellesmere,  and  in  such  a  way 
as  told  Lucy  how  proud  they  were  of  their  dutiful  daugh- 
ter. Aunt  Isohel  had  long  ceased  to  scold  her  on  ac- 
count of  that  wild  adventure,  and  had  even  told  her, 
when  they  two  were  alone,  that  she  had  blessed  her  on 
her  knees  the  very  hour  her  flight  was  known,  from  the 
little  paper  in  the  Bible.  "  Yes,  my  bonny  bairn,  I 
thocht  o'  the  fifth  commandinent' — 'Honor  thy  father 
and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days  may  be  long  upon  the  land 
which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee.'"  With  Emma 
Cran.stoun,   therefore,   she    could    reside   without    being 


THE    FORESTERS.  163 

guilty  of  any  neglect  of  home;  and  there  was  nothing  to 
restrain  the  flow  of  all  her  tenderest  and  warmest  feelings 
towards  her  benefactress. 

In  that  feeble  and  languid  frame,  both  of  body  and 
mind,  into  which  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  had  gradually 
sunk,  the  perpetual  presence  of  a  creature  so  blithe  and 
joyful,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  so  quiet  and  humble  as 
Lucy,  worked  like  a  very  charm,  and  brought  back  to 
her  beautiful  countenance  some  of  those  smiles  that  had 
been  familiar  there  for  several  years  of  renovated  health. 
The  spirit  of  the  invalid,  when  relapsing  into  melanchol- 
ly  or  frightful  trains  of  thought,  was  arrested  by  the  mo- 
tions, the  words,  or  the  eyes  of  her  devoted  attendant, 
and  brought  back  to  the  contemplation  of  this  cheerful 
world.  Lucy  narrated  to  her  all  that  she  knew  of  the 
histories  of  the  families  in  the  parish  ;  and  her  know- 
ledge was  confined  to  their  good  qualities,  their  enjoy- 
ments, or  their  misfortunes.  Her  little  pictures  of  life 
were  drawn  from  what  she  had  seen  by  humble  hearths; 
but  they  were  drawn  with  animation  and  delight,  since 
the  lady  was  desirous  to  know  from  her  what  thoughts 
and  feelings  were  familiar  at  the  firesides  of  the  poor. 
The  interest  which  she  took  in  all  such  representations, 
made  Lucy  believe  more  and  more  that  her  own  lowly 
condition  was  the  very  happiest  that  Providence  could 
have  bestowed  on  her  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  Emma 
Cranstoun  drew,  from  all  the  tales  and  stories  of  the 
simple  girl,  a  stronger  and  stronger  trust  in  the. power  of 
resignation  and  faith  to  support  the  soul  in  all  extremi- 
ties. "  Let  me  believe  as  all  these  poor  cottagers  be- 
lieve, and  my  Maker  may  forgive  all  my  sins,  and  recon- 
cile me,  if  it  be  his  will,  to  an  early  death." 

Lucy  had  never  been  at  any  reading  school,  but  had 
been  taught  to  read  by  her  father,  and  mother,  and  Aunt 
Isobel.  Ever  since  the  time  of  her  father's  blindness, 
she  had  read  to  him  two  or  three  hours  daily  on  an  aver- 
age, and,  during  the  dead  of  winter,  much  more  than 
that  ;  and  as  her  understanding  and  feelings  expanded, 
nature  had  taught  Lucy  her  own  elocution.  She  always 
remembered    for    whose    sake  she  was  performing  that 


1C4 


THE    FORESTERS. 


pleasant  task,  and  filial  love  and  reverence  had  inspired 
intonations  most  touching  and  expressive.  The  books, 
too,  that  Lucy  iiad  read,  were  such  as  gave  her,  day  after 
day,  insights  into  that  nature  to  which  she  belonged; 
and  she  had  learned  to  think  on  it  with  awe,  although 
yet,  in  her  innocence,  almost  ignorant  of  its  evil.  Little, 
therefore,  as  Lucy  Forester  had  seen  or  suffered,  in  that 
little  quiet  world,  where  joy  was  steady  as  the  daylight, 
and  grief  like  the  mere  flitting  clouds,  she  had  thoughts 
and  feelings  within  her  heart  that  rose  up  to  meet  what- 
ever was  congenial  to  them,  whether  offered  in  conver- 
sation of  the  old,  or  in  the  religious  books  that  formed 
the  chief  part  of  her  father's  library.  Emma  Cranstoun 
could  not  but  listen  with  delighted  surprise  to  many  of 
the  young  creature's  sentiments  ;  and  never  did  she  weary 
of  hearing  her  silver  voice  reading  portions  of  her  favor- 
ite authors,  with  an  accent  unrefined,  no  doubt,  and  with 
a  pronunciation  that  might  have  offended  very  fastidious 
ears,  but  with  a  pathos  or  an  intelligence  alternating 
beautifully  with  the  various  meanings  of  every  passage. 
While  Lucy  thus  cheered  the  soul  of  her  benefactress, 
and,  by  sweet,  solemn,  or  sacred  compositions,  brought 
the  dim  hush  of  evening  imperceptibly  on  the  daylight 
that  was  often  nearly  gone  before  the  sun  had  been  ob- 
served by  them  to  be  sinking  westwards,  she  at  the  same 
time  was  enlightening  her  own  mind  by  these  labors  of 
love,  and  gradually  coming  to  know  more  and  more  of 
herself,  her  fellow  creatures,  and  her  Creator. 

Where  now  were  all  Emma  Cranstoun's  elegant  and 
graceful  accomplishments,  the  fruit  of  a  consummate 
education  successfully  pursued  ?  Vain,  indeed,  did  she 
now  hold  them  all  —  more  vain,  perhaps,  than  they  really 
were  ;  fo  •  they  were  intended  to  adorn  the  rejoicing 
days  of  health,  not  to  support  the  despondency  of  sick- 
ness. Her  lute,  her  guitar,  and  her  harp,  were  now  all 
silent;  and  the  pencil  refused  to  obey  her  feeble  fingers. 
Yet  Lucy,  who  had  in  other  days  often  listened  in  rap- 
ture to  the  witchery  of  those  stringed  instruments,  echo- 
ing through  the  saloons  of  that  old  hall,  or  in  some  secret 
covert  in  the  huge  armed  woods,  and  had  gazed  on  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  165 

lady  Avho  toadied  them  as  on  a  creature  almost  too 
beautitVd  for  this  world,  could  not  join  in  the  dispraise 
or  censure  of  endowments  that,  when  the  soul  was  not 
sick,  could  dispense  such  pure  delight.  "  In  a  few  weeks, 
my  beloved  lady,  your  hands  will  again  be  equal  to 
your  nmsic  and  your  drawing;  and  harm  surely  there 
can  be  none  in  such  gifts  as  these  !  Never  hearkened  I 
to  your  singing  to  the  touch  of  the  harp,  without  think- 
ing of  hallelujahs  in  heaven  ;  and  sure  enough  that  is  the 
figure  of  an  angel  you  gave  me  last  summer,  drawn  by 
your  own  hand,  with  a  face  hidden  in  adoration  of  the 
Great  God,  by  the  foldings  of  the  immortal  creature's 
wings." 

Emma  Cranstoun  possessed  much  genius,  and  it  was 
apparent  in  every  trifling  work  of  her  hands.  She  touched 
nothing,  whether  it  was  an  article  of  dress  or  furniture, 
or  the  disposition  of  a  flower  stand,  or  the  arrangement 
of  a  rose  bed,  or  border  of  carnations  or  lilies,  without 
producing  an  effect  unattainable  by  common  hands. 
Lucy  was  not  long  in  catching  something  of  this  spirit  of 
beautiful  invention.  Above  all  things,  she  had  ever  loved, 
studied,  and  understood,  flowering  plants  and  shrubs, 
such  as,  in  our  cold  northern  climate,  flourished  only 
under  shelter.  This  lore  her  father  had  taught  her;  for 
Michael  Forester,  a  botanist  and  a  florist,  had  come  at 
last  to  know  every  plant  by  the  touch  of  its  leaves  or  its 
flowers;  and  many  rare  specimens  had  been  collected 
at  Bracken  Braes,  some  of  the  finest  of  which  were  now 
sent  over  to  the  Hirst,  for  the  lady's  own  domestic  green- 
house, between  her  parlor  and  her  bedroom.  Such  were 
the  occupations  in  which  Lucy's  hours  glided  away;  and 
when  occasionally  visiters  came  to  the  Hirst,  and  the 
lady  was  well  enough  to  receive  them,  Lucy,  who  knew 
her  own  place  and  office,  soon  retired  modestly  from  the 
room,  but  seldom  or  never  without  causing  many  a  ques- 
tion to  be  asked  concerning  one  so  beautiful  in  her  hu- 
mility. 

The  Lady  of  the  Hirst  had  now  recovered  so  much 
strength,  that,  of  her  own  accord,  she  allowed  Lucy  to 
return  home.     "I  shall  be  dull   without  you,  Lucy,  and 


166 


THE    FORESTERS. 


my  parlor  will  soon  miss  your  hands.  What  will  become 
of"  our  green-house  when  you  arc  gone  ?  But  you  must 
try  to  visit  me  once  a-week,  if  possible;  for  to  you  it  is 
but  a  trip  across  the  braes.  I  would  fain  walk  with  you 
to  the  beeches,  but  I  must  not  leave  the  temperature  of 
my  sick-room.  Perhaps  I  may  be  feebler  —  worse  — 
nearer  death  —  when  you  come  to  see  me  again ;  but, 
sweet  Lucy,  the  same  love  will  be  in  my  heart."  And, 
as  she  kissed  Lucy's  cheek,  although  her  own  was  dry, 
the  kiss  touched  a  gush  of  tears  that  were  not  to  be  with- 
held or  hidden.  "  Oh  I  that  you  would  let  me  be  your 
servant  all  the  winter;  for,  if  you  would,  it  is  certain, 
with  the  blessing  of  God,  that  you  would  be  quite  well  in 
the  spring!  "  This  proposal  was  a  pleasant  one  indeed 
to  Emma  Cranstoun ;  and  ii  was  arranged,  that,  if  Lucy 
could  leave  Bracken  Braes  during  the  winter,  without 
any  distress  to  her  parents,  she  was  to  be  an  inmate  at 
the  Hirst. 

As  the  old  towers  of  the  Hirst  disappeared  in  the 
woods,  and  then  the  woods  themselves  in  the  airy  dis- 
tance, Lucy  ceased  to  reflect,  for  the  present,  on  the  life 
she  had  been  leading  there,  and  began  to  think  of  Mary 
Morrison  and  Evvebank.  From  those  pictured  walls  and 
hanging  curtains,  couches,  and  vases,  and  all  the  splendid 
elegancies  which  to  her  eyes  still  wore  a  charm  shed  over 
them  by  her  own  young  imagination,  she  turned,  without 
the  slightest  abatement  of  love  and  delight,  into  that  low 
and  somewhat  gloomy  hut.  There  Mary  was  sitting  at  her 
wheel,  and  her  father  in  his  chair  by  the  hearth.  Lucy's 
heart  always  sunk  in  his  presence,  for  his  aspect  wore  a 
settled  sternness,  and  his  voice  wanted  that  cordial  tone, 
without  which  even  the  kindest  words  are  felt  to  want 
their  most  essential  charm.  Mary's  face  was  even  paler 
and  more  mournful  than  ever;  and  as  soon  as  her  eye 
met  Lucy's,  it  was  overspread  with  a  disordered  flush  far 
from  betokening  happiness.  "  So  you  have  been  staying 
for  a  month  bygone  at  the  Hirst,  Miss  Lucy,"  said  Abra- 
ham, rather  ungraciously,  and  without  rising  from  his 
chair.  "  I  wish  you  may  not  forget  your  auld  friends 
among  sic  fine  folk.     For  my  ain  part,  I  think  Mary  there 


THE    FOKESTEKS.  167 

better  at  liame."  Lucy  felt  that  she  did  not  deserve  such 
a  reproof,  and  replied,  somevviiat  eagerly,  that  siie  would 
always  be  happy  to  visit  at  any  friend's  house  where  she 
got  a  warm  welcome.  Perhaps  she  might  have  said  some- 
thing stronger;  but  on  looking  towards  Mary,  who  was 
stooping  down  her  head,  as  if  busy  with  disentangling  her 
threads,  she  observed  the  tears  fast  falling;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment changed  her  voice  and  her  face  into  her  usual  sweet- 
ness. "No,  no,  Mr.  Morrison;  I  love  your  daughter 
Mary  better,  if  indeed  that  be  possible,  even  than  the 
Lady  of  the  Hirst.  We  two  are  equal  in  condition,  al- 
though I  am  somewhat  younger  in  years;  and  if  you,  sir, 
would  be  glad  to  see  me  here,  I  will  come  over  to  Ewe- 
bank  every  week."  The  perfect  simplicity  and  sincerity 
of  these  words  touched  Abraham's  self-tormenting  and 
discontented  spirit ;  and  he  told  Lucy  to  sit  down,  for  that 
she  was,  he  verily  believed,  the  best  girl  in  the  parishes 
either  of  Ferns  or  of  Holylee.  Already,  by  this  time, 
were  Mary's  tears  wiped  away,  and  there  was  something 
almost  like  cheerfulness  in  the  house. 

Mary  Morrison  said  that  she  would  accompany  Lucy 
part  of  the  way  to  Bracken  Braes,  and  they  walked  on  in 
silence.  But  just  as  Mary  turned  about  to  communicate 
some  sorrow,  Edward  Ellis  was  seen  bounding  down  the 
hill ;  so  she  hastily  wrung  Lucy's  hand,  and,  with  a  face 
of  deep  melancholy,  returned  to  Ewebank. 

It  was  not  possible  for  Lucy's  heart  not  to  throw  off 
much  of  its  sadness,  whether  for  her  oVvn  sake  or  that  of 
others,  on  this  sudden  appearance  of  Edward  Ellis.  Cir- 
cumstances had  prevented  her  from  seeing  much  of  him 
since  lier  return  from  Ellesmere,  and  she  had  never  been 
alone  in  his  company  since  that  midnight  journey  among 
the  mountains.  The  many  affecting  thoughts  that  had 
almost  ever  since  possessed  her  heart,  had  by  no  means 
excluded  his  image;  but  they  had  certainly  hindered  it 
from  occupying  her  waking  and  her  sleeping  dreams  so 
fully  as  it  had  once  done,  and  had  subdued  her  affection 
down  to  what  might  now,  with  some  truth,  perhaps,  have 
been  called  the  affection  of  a  sister.  Serene  in  her  sense 
of  duty  towards  her  parents  and   her  friends,  Lucy  met 


168  THE    FORESTERS. 

his  approach  with  a  countenance  sparkling  with  uncon- 
cealed happiness  ;  and  she  expressed,  in  words  that  came 
from  the  very  heart,  her  deligiit  at  this  unexpected  meet- 
ing. **  I  never  liked,  Mr.  Ellis,  to  say  all  I  thought  be- 
fore people,  even  before  my  father  and  my  mother  them- 
selves ;  but  now  that  we  are  alone,  I  pray  to  Heaven  to 
bless  you  and  yours,  in  your  own  country  or  in  foreign 
parts,  all  your  life.  Your  goodness  to  me  has  been  be- 
yond all  gratitude;  and  sometimes,  remember,  sir,  on  the 
Sabbaths,  that  there  is  ane  praying  for  you  in  the  kirk  o' 
Holylee." 

Edward  Ellis  was  little  more  exi)erienced  in  this  life 
than  Lucy  Forester  herself;  and  as  he  ventured  to  kiss 
those  soft  blue  eyes  that,  as  they  smiled  upon  him,  swam 
with  misty  tears,  he  felt  that  she  was  dearer  to  him  than 
he  knew  in  her  simplicity,  and  not  to  be  parted  from  for- 
ever, without  an  indefinite  despondency  and  distress.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  Lucy  had  grown  nearer  to  woman's 
height  and  form  since  the  night  he  had  met  her  at  the 
linn  :  that  her  countenance  had  lost  something  of  its  more 
childish  prettiness,  but  had  gained  unspeakably  in  the 
expression  of  intelligence  and  feeling;  and  that  even  her 
voice  was  tuned  to  a  deeper  softness,  that  thrilled  to  his 
very  heart.  Neither  had  that  month's  residence  at  the 
Hirst  been  thrown  away  upon  one  so  quick  to  perceive 
and  learn :  an  unconscious  air  of  grace,  beyond  what  is 
native  to  the  cottage,  was  visible  over  her  demeanor; 
and  in  her  dress  —  still  suitable  to  the  Shepherdess  of 
Bracken  Braes  — the  name  by  which  he  had  loved  to  call 
her,  there  was  a  rustic  elegance,  no  doubt  finely  imitated, 
or  rather  inspired,  from  that  of  Emma  Cranstoun.  Like 
a  bird,  too,  escaped  from  a  happy  confinement,  which  it 
had  no  wish  to  leave,  but  still  rejoicing  in  its  new  found 
liberty,  Lucy  once  more  felt  elated  in  the  open  air  of  the 
braes,  and  now  hounded  along  the  heather,  not  so  lightly 
indeed  as  not  to  bend  down  the  purple  fruit  stalks  —  for 
that  is  done  by  the  leveret  and  the  lapwing  —  but  so 
lightly  and  so  quickly  too,  that  it  was  not  without  some 
effort  that  Edward  Ellis,  who  was  esteemed   active  even 


THE    FORESTERS.  169 

among  the  hill-side  shepherds,  kept  pace  with  her   glad- 
some career. 

But  they,  stood  together  by  a  little  spring,  known  only 
to  hunters  and  shepherds,  overshadowed  by  a  rock,  whose 
base  was  covered  with  briar,  broom,  and  bracken,  and 
from  whose  cleft  summit  grew  one  solitary  drooping 
birch  tree.  "  Lucy,  I  am  about  to  leave  Holylee  ;  1 
know  not  if  for  ever.  No — no  —  not  for  ever;  yet  it 
may  be  years  before  I  return  to  visit  Mr.  Kennedy  and 
your  fiither.  A  change  has  been  suddenly  made  in  the 
plan  of  my  education,  and  to-morrow  I  go  away.  Will 
you  accept  a  few  keepsakes  ?  Never  again  shall  I  meet 
with  so  sweet  a  maiden  as  Lucy  Forester,  nor  one  whom 
I  love  so  well."  Lucy  had  scarcely  power  to  reply  ;  but, 
with  a  faltering  voice  and  trembling  hand,  she  accepted 
them,  and,  after  a  few  inarticulate  words  of  affection,  put 
them,  without  looking  at  what  they  were,  into  her  bosom. 

Edward  Ellis  knew  not  what  was  the  nature  of  his 
feelings,  nor  what  ought  now  to  be  his  conduct.  His 
boyish  passion,  at  least  delightful  affection  for  Lucy  For- 
ester had,  for  nearly  a  year  past,  been  growing  with  his 
growth ;  and  now  that  he  had  even  expressed  it,  he  felt 
as  if  Lucy  were  betrothed  to  him  by  her  kind  acceptance 
of  his  love  gifts.  But  what  could  that  word  "  betrothed  " 
mean,  between  him,  a  mere  boy,  and  the  daughter,  still 
younger,  of  a  man  in  Michael  Forester's  humble  situa- 
tion of  life?  Again  he  fixed  his  gazing  eyes  upon  her, 
and  her  beauty  was  more  and  more  irresistible.  "  When 
I  return,  Lucy,  after  a  few  years,  I  shall  find  you  mar- 
ried to  Isaac  Mayne,  the  f^amous  scholar."  —  "Never, 
never."  And  Lucy,  unrestrained  by  shame  or  pride, 
now  wept  bitterly ;  for  thoughts  over  which  she  had  no 
power  came  in  a  tumult  into  her  heart,  and  almost  stopped 
its  beatings,  quick  and  strong  as  they  had  for  some  mo- 
ments been  in  that  sudden  colloquy.  There  had  been  a 
dream  enveloping  her,  which  yet  she  had  not  known  to  be 
a  dream,  till  now  she  saw  it  dissolving  with  all  its  en- 
chantments. Now  had  she  the  first  agonizing  insight  into 
her  own  heart,  and  into  many  feelings  that  lay  couched 
15 


170  THE    FORESTERS. 

there,  strong  as  life  itself —  feelings  that  had  been  rising 
there  in  rapid  growth  every  hour  since  that  travel,  side 
by  side  with  Edward  Ellis,  beneath  the  moon  and  stars. 
A  sudden  gladness  was  breathing  over  her  soul  —  an  inti- 
mation given  that  grief  is  a  guest  in  every  human  breast 
—  a  voice  whispering  that  she  must  forbid  that  glee  in 
which  she  had  revelled  from  the  first  morning  light  — 
that  she  must  tame  the  fairy  flight  of  those  footsteps  over 
the  daisied  green  —  that  the  laughter  indulged  to  child- 
hood must  be  now  restrained  —  and  that  tears,  or  a  calm- 
ness more  sorrowful  than  tears,  must  often  now  subdue 
the  smiles  that  had  hidden  her  eyes,  as  it  were,  in  their 
own  kindling  light.  Something  was  to  be  removed  soon, 
sudden,  and  for  ever,  that,  unknown  to  herself,  had  been 
the  chief  bliss  of  life.  Her  brother,  Edward,  was  no 
more  to  visit  Bracken  Braes  !  yet,  even  in  that  fit  of 
grief,  her  heart  acknowledged  him  to  be  her  brother ; 
for  what  affection  could  be  more  sisterly,  pure,  and.  irre- 
proachable? What  although  a  few  sobs  were  heard! 
Yet  was  that  affection  not  to  cease  —  not  to  be  utterly 
extirpated  —  but  by  absence  and  separation  kept  down 
within  the  heart,  till  reason  and  religion  should  overmas- 
ter it,  before  affection  became  love,  and  love  trouble,  and 
then  the  whole  of  life,  by  night  and  by  day,  in  the  lone- 
some glen,  or  the  crowded  House  of  God,  infested  by 
one  dream  never  to  be  broken  —  stronger  even  than  piety 
or  superstition,  and  coloring  all  the  humblest  incidents 
of  life  with  one  hue,  till  the  soul,  formerly  free  in  its 
wandering  innocence,  should  be  enslaved  at  last  beneath 
the  bondage  of  one  unrelenting  passion. 

A  shepherd  came  up,  unperceived,  to  the  Hawkstane 
Spring;  and,  relieved  by  this  interruption,  Edward  and 
Lucy  accompanied  him  down  to  the  Heriot  Water.  The 
presence  of  an  indifferent  person  soon  .calms  even  the 
strongest  emotion,  and,  before  they  reached  Bracken 
Braes,  the  brother  and  sister,  or,  if  it  must  be  so,  the 
youthful  lovers,  were,  if  not  cheerful,  almost  again 
happy. 

Mr.  Kennedy  had  been  there  only  an  hour  before,  and 
had  acquainted  them  with  Mr.  Ellis'  intended  departure 


THE    FORESTERS.  171 

next  morning.  Every  one  was,  if  possible,  kinder  and 
more  tenderly  respectful  to  the  noble  youth  than  they 
had  ever  intentionally  been  before;  and  when,  at  last,  he 
reluctantly  rose  to  go,  not  without  a  choked  voice  and 
tears  in  his  eyes,  Michael  Forester  stood  up  and  blessed 
him  with  a  fervent  voice.  As  for  the  rest,  they  were 
unable  to  speak  ;  and,  when  they  found  that  Edward  El- 
lis was  indeed  gone,  they  wondered  how  they  could  have 
suffered  him  to  depart  without  expressions  of  greater 
affection. 

Agnes  said  to  Lucy  that  she  seemed  fatigued  with  her 
walk,  and  desired  her  to  retire  to  rest.  She  was  fain  to 
escape  to  her  little  lonely  room,  and  weep  there  unob- 
served. The  Lady  of  the  Hirst,  as  some  thought,  in  a 
dying  state  —  Mary  Morrison  unhappy  —  and  Edward 
Ellis  gone  away  forever  !  But  her  prayers  calmed  her 
heart;  and,  in  little  more  than  an  hour,  when  Aunt  Iso- 
bel  slipped  into  her  room  to  give  her  the  usual  farewell 
kiss  for  the  night,  Lucy  Forester  was  asleep,  and  her  face 
as  tranquil  as  that  of  a  child  in  its  cradle. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

The  morning  on  which  Lucy  was  to  leave  home  for  a 
whole  winter,  rose  bright  and  beautiful,  and  all  the  fam- 
ily assembled  cheerfully  under  the  plane  tree  to  bid  her 
a  happy  farewell.  Her  parents  were  the  proudest  people 
in  the  whole  world;  but  their's  was  a  pride  indulged  in 
profoundest  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  Mercies.  Their 
child  was  beloved  over  all  the  parish,  and  in  every  house 
she  had  friends;  but  she  was  now  going  to  become  the 
chosen  companion  of  her  whose  very  smiles  were  a  bless- 
ing; and  they  felt  that,  in  case  of  their  own  death,  Lucy 
would  have  an  asylum  at  the  Hirst,  where  the  orphan 
could  well   repay  her  benefactress  for  the  protection  of 


172  THE    FORESTERS. 

her  innocence.  Therefore,  so  far  from  its  looking  like 
a  pariing  scene,  every  face  kindled  with  pleasure  as  at  a 
return.  Michael  stood  with  his  calm  countenance  in  the 
morning  light,  turned  affectionately  towards  his  child,  as 
happy  a?^  any  man  in  existence.  Agnes  had  herself  as- 
sisted Lucv  in  dressing,  and  regarded  her  with  a  mother's 
admiring  eyes,  as  her  beauty  shone  with  a  more  joyful 
lustre,  in  the  consciousness  of  her  neatly  ordered  array, 
and  the  anticipation  of  Enmia  Cranstoun's  embrace. 
Aunt  Isobel  said,  that  she  now  loved  Martha  so  well,  that 
she  would  never  miss  Lucy  ;  but  reminded  her,  at  the 
same  time,  with  a  hand  fondly  laid  on  her  bosom,  that 
once  a-week  had  she  promised  to  see  them  all  at  Bracken 
Braes,  and  never  to  miss  a  single  Sabbath  at  the  kirk  of 
Holylee.  Martha  was  sincerely  happy  at  her  kind  cou- 
sin's good  fortune,  and  expressed  her  happiness  in  her 
usual  homely  language.  So  away  danced  Lucy  across 
the  hills  —  her  last  kiss,  and  her  last  whisper  —  perhaps 
a  tear —  having  been  given  as  his  due  to  her  blind  father. 

"  Where  now  is  Edward  Ellis?"  thought  Lucy,  with 
a  sigh,  ns  she  glided  up  and  down  the  solitary  places  — 
the  rocks  and  braes,  the  mosses  and  the  coppice  woods, 
through  which  he  had  accompanied  her  but  a  few  weeks 
ago.  With  something  like  pain  and  reluctance,  she 
turned  aside  to  the  little  shaded  spring,  on  whose  mossy 
brink  they  had  sat  and  conversed  so  affectionately,  like 
brother  and  sister.  That  pleasant  dream  was  vanished  ; 
the  same  blue  unclouded  sky  was  reflected  in  the  water; 
but  a  dead  silence  lay  around  ;  and  that  delightful  voice, 
and  those  beaming  eyes,  w^ere  gone,  and  forever.  Lucy 
took  from  her  bosom  some  of  the  small  memorials  of  his 
affection,  which,  for  reasons  she  scarcely  knew,  she  had 
alvvays  concealed  from  every  eye,  and  unconsciously  put 
them  to  her  lips.  "God  bless  him  all  his  days,"  was  the 
prayer  she  breathed,  as  she  returned  the  trifles  to  the  fair 
warmth  of  her  breast,  which,  in  a  few  minutes,  beat  with 
all  its  wonted  tranquillity. 

It  was  a  clear  October  day,  the  sky  perfectly  settled, 
the  air  pure  as  pure  might  be,  and  a  slight  frost,  beautiful 
as  dew,  lying  yet  unmelted,  over  the  discolored  heather. 


THE    FORESTERS.  173 

Lucy  looked  back  to  the  happy  parting  below  the  plane 
tree,  and  forwards  to  the  Hirst,  and  all  sad  thoughts  cither 
faded  away,  or  were  tinged  with  the  joyfulness  of  a  hope- 
ful spirit.  "  Why  sit  singing  there,  sweet  robin-redbreast, 
on  a  briary  stone  pillar  in  the  moors?  The  summer  days 
are  all  over  and  gone,  and  in  another  month  may  be  com- 
ing the  snow.  Away,  sweet  robin-redbreast!  —  away  to 
Bracken  Braes,  and  trill  that  bit  short  merry  sang  o'  thine 
frae  the  roof  o'  the  barn,  till  not  a  leaf  is  left  on  our 
plane  tree ;  and  then  keep  hopping  about  the  door,  and 
in  and  out  of  the  window,  as  you  have  done  for  seven 
winters." 

Lucy  was  now  nearly  half  way  to  the  Hirst;  for  she 
was  standing  on  a  small  eminence,  called  the  Gowan 
Green,  where  Mary  Morrison  and  she  had  often  sat  to- 
gether for  hours  in  their  plaids,  both  in  gloom  and  in 
sunshine.  Here  they  had  often  waited  for  each  other, 
on  those  days  when  it  was  known  that  Lucy  was  going 
to  the  Hirst;  and,  when  not  lucky  enough  to  meet,  each 
betokened  her  disappointment  by  a  bunch  of  heather  or 
wild  flowers  laid  on  the  middle  of  that  platform.  It  was 
not  easy  to  imagine  a  place  more  solitary.  No  streamlets 
here  murmured  along  the  bases  of  the  hills  that  came 
close  together,  without  any  intervening  valleys,  however 
narrow;  but,  just  below  the  eminence,  lay  a  little  lake 
or  tarn,  not  much  larger  than  a  pond,  self-fed,  and  black 
with  its  moorland  water.  The  long  heather  quite  sur- 
rounded it,  except  on  the  side  of  the  Gowan  Green, 
which  sloped  away  down  to  the  margin,  with  its  short 
smooth  pasture.  '  A  number  of  large  loose  stones  —  for 
they  could  hardly  be  called  rocks  —  lay  here  and  there 
upon  the  water  edge,  and  a  few  birch  trees  were  sprink- 
led among  the  stunted  hazles.  There  were  no  features 
belonging  to  the  scene  that  could  be  called  beautiful ;  yet, 
on  a  fine  day,  the  lonesome  place  was  pleasant  in  its  si- 
lence, and,  in  spring  or  early  summer,  there  was  constant- 
ly here  the  sweet  fragrance  of  whins,  broom,  and  briar, 
with  which  was  intermingled  that  of  many  unnoticed  wild 
flowers,  as  well  as  that  of  the  lady  fern,  and  of  the  birches, 
15* 


174  THE    FORESTERS. 

some  of  which,  eaten  down  by  the  sheep,  were  not 
much  taller  than  that  graceful  plant.  Lucy  and  Mary 
had  once  passed  a  whole  summer  Sabbath  here,  without 
any  interruption,  from  morning  to  night.  It  so  happened, 
that  there  had  been  no  Divine  service,  either  at  Holylee 
or  the  Ferns;  and  here  the  two  happy  creatures  had 
agreed  to  pass  the  whole  day,  reading  their  Bibles,  sing- 
ing hymns  in  the  wilderness,  and  talking  over  all  the  con- 
cerns ol  their  young  and  innocent  life. 

Ewebank,  the  house  of  Mary  Morrison,  was  not  very 
far  off;  and  Lucy,  knowing  how  early  in  the  morning  it 
yet  was,  resolved  to  surprise  her  by  a  visit  before,  per- 
haps, her  hearth  was  kindled.  Looking  down  upon  the 
tarn,  behold,  upon  the  stony  edge  of  the  water,  she  saw 
a  female  figure,  with  her  face  covered  with  her  hands, 
and  a  man  standing  beside  her,  apparently  in  great  agi- 
tation. The  figure  lifted  up  its  face  for  a  moment,  and 
she  knew  that  it  was  Mary  Morrison.  The  man  paced 
to  and  fro,  a  short  distance,  and  ever  and  anon  stood 
close  beside  Mary,  with  violent  gesticulations,  and  atti- 
tudes bespeaking  rage  and  hatred.  At  length  he  seized 
Mary  by  the  hair,  who  fell  down  on  her  knees,  and  clasp- 
ed her  hands  together  in  supplication.  In  his  right  hand 
there  seemed  to  be  a  large  stone,  picked  up  from  the  edge 
of  the  tarn  ;  and  all  at  once  Lucy  knew  that  he  was  about 
to  be  a  murderer.  The  dead  silence  of  the  lonesome 
place,  and  the  furious  looks  of  the  ruffian,  quailed  Lucy's 
heart  within  her,  and  her  first  impulse  was  to  fly  back  tow- 
ards Bracken  Braes,  or  sink  down  where  she  stood,  in 
concealment  among  the  heather ;  but  her  love  for  meek 
Mary  Morrison,  the  first  and  best  friend  of  her  youth, 
prevailed,  and,  uttering  a  wild  cry,  she  flew  down  the  hill 
side  towards  the  tarn,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  at  her 
side.  Mary  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  friend  with  a  wild 
look,  and  then  upon  him  whose  hand  had  suddenly  let  go 
its  grasp  of  the  wretched  creature's  hair,  and  said,  quak- 
ingly  —  "  O  Mark  ThornhUl !  Mark  Thornhill !  have  pity 
upon  us — murder  us  not;  for  we  are  baith  young,  and, 
as  for  me,  sair  need  hae  I  o'  repentance."  The  stone 
fell  from  his  right  hand  —  the  paleness  of  fear  seemed  to 


THE    FORESTERS,  175 

pass  over  the  deadly  scowl  of  wrath  —  and  his  knees 
knocked  against  each  other,  in  the  sudden  remorse  of  an 
unacted  crime.  But  still  an  evil  demon  kept  whispering 
in  his  ear,  that  Mary  and  Lucy  were  yet  in  the  power  of 
the  criminal.  Mary  Morrison,  who  had  felt  that  her  last 
hour  was  come,  had  not  strength  to  rise  up  from  her  knees, 
but  sunk  down  altogether,  and  lay  insensible  among  the 
hard  flints  of  the  beach.  For  a  short  time,  not  a  word 
was  uttered  ;  but  all  was  silent  in  the  fear  of  death  that 
still  overshadowed  that  solitary  place. 

Lucy  knew  nothing  of  the  dreadful  mystery  in  which 
she  had  all  at  once  been  involved  ;  but  her  courage  did 
not  desert  her,  and  she  beseeched  Mark  Thornhill  —  for 
she  caught  his  name  in  Mary's  indistinct  supplications  — 
•to  look  upon  them  both  without  anger,  and  that  God 
would  forgive  and  reward  him  for  his  pity.  That  hand 
which  had  been  clenched  to  do  a  deed  of  death,  could 
not  now  have  hurt  a  hair  of  Mary  Morrison's  head  :  it 
was  quelled  by  the  sudden  beauty  of  that  fearless  inno- 
cence coming  upon  him,  as  if  from  heaven,  to  save  him 
from  perdition.  He  had  received  a  reprieve  from  crime. 
Mary  ventured  to  lift  up  her  face  from  the  sand,  and  saw 
that  he  was  not  relentless.  "Swear — swear  that  you 
are  not  my  wife  —  and  that  you  will  never  claim  me  as 
your  husband."  —  "I  swear  it,"  said  Mary,  and  again 
bowed  down  her  head.  Her  betrayer  moved  slowly  and 
sullenly  away  —  and,  disappearing  over  the  Gowan Green, 
left  Mary  and  Lucy  alone  on  the  brink  of  the  Ouzel 
Loch. 

Guilt  and  its  miseries  had  hitherto  been  to  Lucy 
Forester  like  the  words  of  a  strange  tongue.  And  now 
nothinrr  distinct  —  nothing  that  could  be  borne  to  be 
thought  of,  had  entered  her  mind.  But  there  lay  meek 
Mary  Morrison,  ashamed  to  look  her  in  the  face,  and 
uttering  no  words  but  these — "This  will  break  my 
father's  heart — this  will  break  my  father's  heart.  O 
Lucy  !  gang  away  to  the  Hirst,  and  leave  me  here  to  die  ; 
for  when  you  ken  what  I  am  now,  your  eyes  will  smile 
on  me  never  mair ;  and  yet  I  surely  think  they  will 
weep  for  me  when  I   am  dead   and  buried  in   sin,  and 


176  THE    FORESTERS. 

shame,  and  sorrow  !  "  Lucy  was  weeping  for  her  al- 
ready; nor  had  these  dismal  words  any  power  to  deaden 
her  affection.  She  assisted  Mary  to  rise  from  that  cruel 
bed,  and  in  a  little  while  was  sitting  with  an  arm  round 
her  neck,  where  they  had  so  often  sat  and  sang  in  their 
joy  —  on  a  knoll  in  the  centre  of  the  Gowan  Green. 

There  was  for  a  long  time  sobbing  and  sighing,  and 
then  dead  silence.  Lucy  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Mary, 
Mary,  will  you  hear  me  ?  Well,  then,  here  before  our 
Father  which  is  in  heaven,  and  Him  who  died  for  us, 
do  I  upon  my  knees  say  unto  you,  that  I  will  never 
forsake  you  —  that  1  will  not  only  pity  you,  and  pray 
for  you  night  and  day,  but  I  will  love  you  better,  far 
better  than  ever :  let  others  do  as  they  may,  I  at  least 
will  be  the  same  to  you  as  ever :  yes,  Mary,  I  will  love 
you  beyond  all  living  creatures  but  my  father  and 
mother.  If  I  do  not,  may  the  gates  of  yonder  blue 
skies  never  be  opened  to  me  by  the  hands  of  God's  holy 
angels  !  " 

Mary  Morrison  was  yet  too  young  to  be  sick  of  life. 
Solitary  and,  but  for  Lucy,  friendless  as  that  life  had 
been,  still  it  had  too  much  sunshine  to  be  exchanged, 
without  dismay,  for  the  darkness  of  the  grave.  Even 
shame,  she  began  to  think,  might  be  borne,  if  Lucy 
would  but  continue  to  look  on  her  with  unaverted  and 
unchanged  eyes  in  her  disgrace.  "  Perhaps  even  my 
father  may  be  brought  to  forgive  me  ! "  But  that  was  a 
transient  thought  ;  for,  although  she  loved  her  father, 
she  feared  that  forgiveness  was  not  in  his  nature  for  such 
a  crime.  Suddenly  her  heart  burned  within  her,  and, 
kneeling  down  beside  Lucy,  who  was  still  on  her  knees, 
she  exclaimed  —  "God  will  bless  you,  Lucy,  for  this! 
but  hear  me  now,  and  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  am 
not  so  guilty  as  people  will  think.  I  will  keep  my  oath, 
Lucy,  for  you  heard  me  swear  ;  but  to  you  who  saw  so 
much,  I  may  speak  without  being  foresworn.  Guilty  as 
I  am,  yet  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  am  I  his  wife,  and  Mark 
Thornhill  is  my  husband  !  Yes,  Lucy,  we  were  married 
before  two  witnesses,  and  Mark  gave  me  a  paper,  saying 
I  was  his  wife;  but,  waes  me!  he  does  not  care  fot  me 


THE    FORESTERS.  177 

now  — he  has  sent  the  witnesses  out  of  the  way  ;  and,  as 
for  the  writing,  he  tore  it  out  of  my  bosom  this  dreadful 
mortiing,  and  it  is  destroyed  for  ever.  Naebndy  will 
ever  believe  now  that  we  were  married;  and,  Oh!  how 
can  I  face  my  father  ?  " 

In  a  few  hours —  for  hours  indeed  passed  by,  and  the 
sun  was  high  in  heaven  —  Mary  Morrison  had  told  Lucy 
her  history  over  and  over  again  many,  many  times,  and 
she  began  to  feel  even  some  relief  from  her  conscience 
in  her  friend's  unabated  affection.  She  even  ventured 
to  think  it  possible  that  Lucy's  father  and  mother  would 
not  altogether  forsake  her  in  her  shame  —  for  shame 
there  was  indeed  to  be,  worse  than  all  other  evils  except 
death.  But  then  she  thought  of  her  own  father,  and 
her  heart  died  within  her  ;  for  she  knew  too  well  that,  as 
soon  as  she  confessed  to  him,  never  again  would  she  be 
allowed  to  darken  the  door  of  Ewebank. 

At  last  they  parted  —  Mary  to  her  father's,  and  Lucy 
(for  one  night,  and  one  night  only)  to  the  Hirst;  for 
she  was  determined  to  tell  everything  she  durst  to  her 
father,  and  beseech  him  to  go  over  in  the  morning  to 
Ewebank. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

Lucy  left  the  Hirst  before  morning  had  entirely  dimmed 
the  stars,  and  had  to  tap  for  admission  into  the  house,  at 
the  window  of  her  fiither's  room,  for  sleep  yet  held  all 
the  family  at  Bracken  Braes.  The  story  she  had  to  tell 
about  Mary  Morrison  greatly  disturbed  her  parents  and 
Aunt  Isobel  ;  and,  for  a  while,  Lucy  feared  that  her 
unhappy  friend  was  to  be  deserted  in  her  misery.  Michael, 
Agnes,  and  Isobel  were  all  too  sensible  of  their  own 
failings,  and  frailties,  and  too  religiously  impressed  with 
an  habitual  sense  of  the  utter  weakness  of  human  nature, 
to  judge  and  condemn  sternly  the  errors  or  sins  of  their 


178  THE    FORESTERS. 

fellow  Christians.  But  this  was  a  case  that  it  was  nec- 
essary to  understand  perfectly  before  they  could  decide 
what  was  their  duty.  They  were  bound  by  love,  nature, 
and  religion,  to  protect  their  daughter  from  all  stain  of 
pollution,  and  to  sever  her  inexorably  from  her  tenderest 
friendships,  rather  than  suffer  her  to  incur  any  danger, 
however  slight,  of  being  contaminated  by  evil  example. 
They  all  loved  Mary  Morrison,  and  could  not  easily 
believe  in  her  guilt;  but  they  knew  how  many  shades  of 
sin  darken  the  actions  of  us  mortal  creatures,  and  per- 
haps that  poor  girl,  although  more  the  object  of  pity  than 
blame,  had,  nevertheless,  greivously  erred.  From  Lucy's 
story,  they  saw  enough  to  determine  them  all  to  give 
Mary  their  compassion,  their  condolence,  and  their  sup- 
port in  the  agony  of  her  affliction,  in  so  far  as  that  could 
be  done,  without  violating  the  awful  sanctity  of  the  moral 
law,  and  thereby  tainting,  perhaps,  the  very  atmosphere 
in  which  their  own  Lucy  breathed.  They  all  remember- 
ed Mary's  meekness  and  modesty  —  her  unrepining  gen- 
tleness under  the  severities  of  a  cruel  parent  —  her  grate- 
ful disposition — indeed  almost  too  grateful  —  to  them 
at  Bracken  Braes  ;  for  even  the  commonest  courtesies 
and  kindnesses,  and  that  deep  sense  of  religion,  which 
more  constantly  than  with  any  one  they  knew,  influenced 
her  whole  conduct  and  demeanor,  and  made  her,  without 
excepting  even  their  own  Lucy,  the  most  perfect  model 
of  a  Christian  daughter. 

Lucy  was  altogether  overcome  by  the  thought  that 
her  father  and  mother  might  be  about  to  leave  Mary 
Morrison  to  her  fate.  True  to  her  promise  to  that  un- 
fortunate creature,  she  had  not  disclosed  all  she  knew, 
and  thus  her  pleadings  for  her  beloved  friend  had  been 
in  their  most  passionate  earnestness,  perplexing  and  im- 
perfect. At  last  she  hinted  that  there  was  a  secret  that 
must  not  be  revealed,  and  by  degrees  her  father  came  to 
understand  something  of  its  nature,  and  of  the  obligation 
Lucy  had  come  under  to  observe  silence.  The  clear  and 
high  understanding  of  Michael  Forester  was  not  to  be 
deceived  by  the  sophistry  which  fear  and  shame  had 
whispered  to  the  hearts  of  his  daughter  and  her   friend. 


THE    FORESTERS.  179 

The  truth  must  be  told,  tlie  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,  else  God,  the  Searcher  and  Judge  of  all 
hearts,  would  not  be  well  pleased.  Promises  and  oaths, 
by  whomsoever  extorted,  under  such  circumstances,  must 
be  given  to  the  winds,  and  a  full  confession  made  before 
God  and  man  of  the  sin,  and  of  the  aggravating  or  pal- 
liating circumstances  with  which  it  might  have  been 
attended.  There  was  no  speck,  no  dimness  on  the  eye  of 
Michael  Forester's  mind,  and  he  saw  that  here  there  was 
selfish,  and  licentious,  and  cruel  guilt,  trampling  upon 
abused  and  terrified  innocence.  "  This,"  said  the  blind 
man,  "  with  the  blessing  of  God,  must  not  be,  and  I 
feel  myself  called  upon  to  be  the  minister  of  his  Eternal 
Justice." 

What  tears  poured  down  the  pale  face  of  Agnes,  and 
what  fear  quaked  within  her  heart,  when  Lucy  narrated 
all  that  had  happened  at  the  Ouzel  Loch !  "Manifestly 
the  arm  of  mercy  was  over  our  child,  Michael,  else  had 
that  bonnie  head  of  her's  been  laid  cruelly  in  the  dust." 
Lucy  was  too  anxious  about  Mary  Morrison  to  hear  even 
the  just  commendation  of  herself,  although  coming  from 
the  lips  of  those  whom  it  was  the  sole  object  of  her  life 
to  make  happy,  and  she  only  exclaimed  —  "  You  will  not 
forsake  Mary  now,  fiither,  should  she  be  driven  from 
Evvebank  ?  O  will  you  —  say  that  you  will  receive  her 
into  our  ain  house ;  for,  unless  we  do  so,  her  heart  will 
break,  and,  before  the  end  of  the  week,  Mary  Morrison 
will  be  in  her  grave."  —  "  Yes,  my  Lucy,  if  she  needs  it, 
the  door  of  Bracken  Braes  shall  be  open  to  her  ;  nor  do 
I  fear  although  her  head  should  even  lie  on  the  same  pil- 
low with  that  of  my  own  child." 

Michael  and  Lucy  were  not  long  in  setting  out  for 
Ewebank.  Few  words  were  spoken  as  they  crossed  the 
solitary  hills  and  valleys,  for  Michael  was  settling  in  his 
own  mind  all  that  ought  to  be  said  to  the  father  of  Mary 
Morrison.  On  reaching  Ewebank,  Lucy  saw  him  walk- 
ing about  distractedly,  with  his  gray  head  uncovered,  in 
a  small  garden  close  to  the  hut.  A  frown  was  settled  on 
his  forehead  and  all  about  his  eyes  as  firmly  as  if  it  had 
been  their  constant  expression  — his  cheeks  seemed  rigid. 


180  THE    FORESTERS. 

and  his  white  lips  quivered  as  in  convulsions.  In  a  low 
voice,  Lucy  described  to  her  father  his  agitated  state. 
"  This  is,  indeed,  a  distressing  affliction,  Abraham,  and 
I  feel  for  you  ;  for  I,  too,  have  but  an  only  child.  I 
have  ventured  over  to  pray  with  you  —  to  comfort  you  in 
any  way  one  Christian  may  comfort  another  ;  and  es- 
pecially, my  worthy  friend,  to  inform  you  of  something 
that  goes  far  to  prove  your  daughter's  innocence." — 
"May  the  curse  of  God  cleave  to  her  —  the  wages  of  sin 
are  death !  "  and  he  again  paced  to  and  fro  with  clenched 
hands,  and  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven  in  savage  supplication. 
"  May  I  ask  where  she  is,  Abraham  ?  but  I  beseech  you, 
by  Him  who  died  for  us  on  the  Tree,  not  to  curse  the 
daughter  of  Alice  Gray  !  "  That  name  rooted  the  angry 
sufferer  to  tlie  ground  ;  but,  again,  he  tore  himself  away, 
and  cried  aloud  — "  Yes  —  I  curse  her,  and  may  she  be 
cursed,  for  she  has  covered  these  white  hairs  with  shame  ;  " 
and  he  flung  down  a  handful  of  his  long  silvery  locks, 
and  trampled  upon  them  with  his  feet.  Lucy  was  ter- 
rified at  the  sight,  and,  retiring  to  a  little  distance,  sat 
down  upon  a  bank.  "  Where  is  your  daughter,  Abra- 
ham 1  for  I  feel  as  if  God  sent  me  here  to  reconcile  you 
unto  her." — "Call  her  not  my  daughter,  for  daughter 
she  is  none  of  mine  ;  neither  know  I  where  the  prostitute 
has  hidden  herself  from  my  wrath  —  in  the  moor,  or  in 
the  mosses,  or  the  Ouzel  Loch.  Never  again  may  these 
eyes  behold  her  in  life."  And  at  these  words  he  burst 
out  into  hideous  laughter,  all  drenched  in  a  flood  of  tears, 
and  fell  down  with  great  violence  to  the  earth. 

Michael  heard  the  fall,  and  Lucy  was  coming  to  his 
assistance,  when,  issuing  silently  as  a  ghost  from  the 
birch  wood,  the  edge  of  which  came  almost  close  upon 
the  garden,  Mary  Morrison  was  already  on  her  knees, 
with  her  father's  head  supported  on  her  bosom.  "  This 
is  my  doing,  Mr.  Forester  —  all  my  wicked  doing  :  you 
had  far  better  leave  me  to  my  death,  after  you  have  re- 
covered my  father.  O  that  he  could  be  taken  over  to 
Bracken  Braes,  and  comforted  back  again  into  his  reason. 
As  for  me,  it  is  but  just  that  I  should  die.  But  see  — 
see,  Lucy,  his  eyes  are  opening,  and  now  he  shuts  them 


THE    FonESTERS.  181 

upon  nie,  for  I  am  hateful  in  my  sin,  and  most  loathsome 
to  my  father's  soul.  I  must  hide  myself  again  in  the 
thicket  among  the  briars  :  if  I  touch  him,  perhaps  he 
will  kill  me.  O,  Mr.  Forester  !  invite  him  over  to  Bracken 
Braes,  and  tell  him  that  I  have  fled  out  of  the  parish,  to 
pollute  his  eyes  never  mair  on  this  side  o'  the  grave." 
Mary  Morrison  then  started  up,  and  disappeared. 

That  paroxysm  had  in  some  measure  allayed  the  passion 
in  Abraham  Morrison's  spirit,  by  the  weakness  which  it 
induced  over  his  entire  frame.  He  almost  seemed  as  if 
a  palsy  had  stricken  him  ;  but,  by  and  by,  he  revived, 
and  in  a  sort  of  stupor  walked  into  the  house,  followed 
by  Michael  and  Lucy.  Unconscious  of  his  actions,  he 
sat  down  as  usual  in  his  chair  by  the  hearth  side,  on 
which  no  fire  was  burning,  and  his  hand  falling  violently 
upon  that  book  which  speaks  only  of  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness, he  again  uttered  an  indistinct  curse  upon  his  child. 
It  appeared  that  he  had  been  reading  the  Bible  ;  but 
some  evil  spirit  had  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  the  balm  of 
consolation  was  to  him  poison,  bitter  and  mortal.  Lucy 
stood  trembling  behind  her  father,  and  then  said  in  a 
whisper  —  "  I  will  go  to  Mary  in  the. wood." 

Perhaps  Abraham  Morrison  knew  not  that  any  one 
was  in  the  room,  for  now  his  words  seemed  to  be  uttered 
as  if  to  himself  in  solitude.  "  If  ever  I  forgive  her,  may 
I  be  unforgiven  !  If  she  dies  in  childbirth,  and  I  shed  a 
tear,  may  it  sink  like  a  spark  of  hell  into  my  heart!" 
Then  gazing  on  Michael  Forester,  he  started  up,  and 
cried  with  a  loud  voice  —  "  What  brought  you  hither,  Mr. 
Forester?  Go  home  and  watch  your  own  child  —  for 
young  as  she  is,  and  with  a  smile  upon  her  face,  how 
know  you  that  she  may  not  be  a  sinner,  and  up  to  the 
lips  in  pollution?"  —  "Abraham  Morrison,"  said  the 
blind  man,  standing  like  a  prophet,  with  his  outstretched 
arm,  and  tall  figure  straight  and  still  in  its  majesty  of 
command  —  "Abraham  Morrison,  remember  that  you  are 
a  father,  and  that  none  other  but  tlie  hand  of  the  Almighty 
can  break  that  bond  that  ties  you,  all  the  days  of  your 
life,  to  your  child.  Be  she  even  guilty,  the  voice  of  the 
16 


182  THE    FORESTERS. 

Great  God  commands  you  to  forgive  her;  for,  in  his 
sight,  you  are  far  guiltier  than  she.  Yes,  Abraham  Mor- 
rison, your  sins  have  been  many,  and  they  have  been  done 
under  tlie  shadow  of  gray  hairs :  her's  have  been  few, 
and  this  —  1  know  it  well  —  this  is  the  poor  creature's 
birthday,  and  she  is  but  seventeen  years!  But  hearken 
unto  me,  Abraham,  I  command  you  to  hearken  unto  me 
—  your  daughter's  heart  is  unpolluted,  and  if  her  father 
deserts  her,  then,  this  very  night,  shall  she  sleep  in  my 
own  Lucy's  arms.  Grant,  O  God  I  thy  blessing  on  this 
afflicted  house."  And  Michael  Forester  stood  a  little 
while  with  his  head  gently  bowed,  and  his  hands  uplifted 
in  the  attitude  of  prayer. 

It  is  in  the  power  of  a  strong  and  stubborn  heart,  not 
only  to  harden  itself  against  all  natural  affection,  but  to 
triumph  in  what  it  strives  within  itself  to  consider  in  the 
light  of  a  sacrifice.  So  was  it  now  with  Abraham  Mor- 
rison. He  knew  well  —  it  was  not  possible  to  keep  that 
knowledge  from  his  conscience —  that  he  had  denied  his 
daughter  all  the  harmless  amusements  and  pastimes  of 
youth;  that  he  had  closed  his  heart  against  her  in  all  his 
domestic  hours,  finding  at  last  a  sullen  satisfaction  in 
tyrannizing  over  the  gentle,  and  obedient,  and  unrepining 
creature,  whom  he  could  not  but  love ;  that  he  had  often 
left  her  quite  alone  in  that  solitary  hut  for  long  days  to- 
gether, and  uncared  for  and  unguarded  among  the  hills ; 
and  now  that  evil  had  befallen  her  innocence,  instead  of 
looking  into  his  own  unfalherly  conduct,  he  steeled  him- 
self against  her  in  his  very  remorse,  and  took  refuge  in 
the  excommunication  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood  from  the 
privileges  of  nature.  It  was  all  in  vain  for  Michael  For- 
ester to  exculpate  her,  or  palliate  her  transgression.  She 
herself  had,  the  night  before,  told  her  own  pitiable  story; 
but,  under  the  terror  of  that  oath,  had  said  not  a  word 
against  her  betrayer  and  her  murderer.  The  stern  old  man 
adhered  cruelly  to  her  own  confession,  and  all  Michael's 
words  rebounded  back  as  if  from  a  rock.  He  too  who 
thus  unmercifully  judged  his  daughter's  transgression, 
thought  far  more  of  himself,  and  the  shame  that  had  fallen 
upon  him,  than  of  her  guilt  in  the  eyes  of  her  Maker,  or 


THE    FORESTERS.  183 

even  of  the  Eternal's  goodness  to  his  fallen  creatures. 
The  eyes  and  the  tongues  of  men  were  to  him  not  en- 
durable in  their  scorn  and  condemnation  ;  and  his  pride 
wished  that,  rather  than  this  disgrace,  his  daughter  had 
been  drowned,  or  had  perished  in  fire.  He  had  borne  ill 
his  many  worldly  misfortunes,  and  although  his  integrity 
had  been  unimpeached,  he  repined  in  iiis  poverty.  His 
crops  had  been  oftener  withered  or  blasted,  he  tiaought, 
than  those  of  his  neighbors;  diseases  came  among  his 
cattle  more  frequently  than  among  theirs ;  and  nothing 
prospered  about  Ewebank  ever  since  he  had  been  its 
tenant.  There  had  always  been  an  evil  eye  upon  the 
place,  and  now  the  whole  phials  of  wrath  had  been  poured 
out,  and  he  was  ready  to  curse  God  and  die.  "  Go  home, 
Mr.  Forester  —  go  home  with  your  daughter,  and  leave 
me  in  my  misery.  As  for  her,  if  she  cross  my  threshold 
again,  may  she  drop  down  dead  upon  the  tloor." 

Lucy  came  into  the  room,  and,  taking  her  father's 
hand  to  lead  him  out,  they  left  the  hut  unnoticed  by  the 
wretched  man,  who  sat  with  his  eyes  sullenly  fixed  upon 
the  dead  ashes  on  the  hearth.  They  entered  the  birch 
wood  by  a  small  glade,  and  there  Mary  Morrison  was 
lying  upon  the  ground.  *' O  father!"  said  Lucy,  "  we 
must  take  Mary  with  us,  for  she  has  been  all  night  long 
in  this  very  place,  afraid  even  of  her  life,  so  fiercely  did 
her  fiither  rage  against  her;  and  if  left  here,  she  will 
surely  die."  Michael  took  her  into  his  .'.rms,  and  kissed 
her  cheek,  but  he  could  not  see,  what  Lucy  wept  to  be- 
hold, the  mark  of  violence  upon  her  face,  no  doubt  from 
her  father's  hand,  although  Mary  had  said  not  a  word  of 
that  cruelty,  and  beseeched  them  both  to  forgive  him,  for 
that  her  misconduct  had  driven  him  to  distraction. 

They  once  more  passed  near  the  door  of  the  hut,  but 
nothing  stirred  within;  and  Mary,  who  was  almost  help- 
less from  her  suiferiugs,  permitted  herself  to  be  taken 
away  from  Ewebank,  and,  without  speaking  a  single  word 
all  the  way,  found  herself  at  Bracken  Braes. 


184  THE    FORESTERS. 


CHAPTER     XXXII 


Lucy's  visit  to  the  Hirst  was  necessarily  delayed,  at 
least  for  a  few  days,  till  the  mental  agonies  of  Mary  Mor- 
rison might  be  assuaged  by  the  tenderest  sympathies  of 
those  who  seemed  indeed  now  to  be  her  only  Iriends  on 
earth.  Not  a  word  of  forgiveness  came  from  her  own 
unrelenting  father,  and  she  was  indeed  an  orphan.  Few 
friends  had  she  ever  had  to  cheer  her  solitary  life,  and 
those  few  deserted  her  in  her  disgrace.  Abraham  Mor- 
rison was  but  a  poor  man,  and  therefore  people,  whom  his 
disagreeable  character  had  repelled  from  Ewebank,  had 
no  selfish  inducement  now  to  offer  any  comfort  in  his 
affliction.  He  became  an  object  of  blame  rather  than  of 
pity,  although  both  feelings  might  well  have  been  enter- 
tained towards  him ;  and  his  daughter's  fall  was,  at  every 
fireside,  laid  to  the  charge  of  his  austerity  or  indifference. 
This  Abraham  knew,  and,  while  his  heart  acknowledged 
that  the  charge  was  true,  yet  he  sullenly  regarded  those 
by  whom  it  was  made,  and  his  conscience  hardened  itself 
in  pride  against  those  haunting  visitations  that  come  upon 
the  lonely  hours  of  every  man  that  forgets  or  violates  any 
of  the  great  natural  duties.  He  continued  obdurate  in 
his  unrelenting  misery  within  the  gloom  of  his  hut,  and 
not  one  of  the  few  neighbors  who  had  gone  to  see  him 
repeated  the  visit,  for  they  saw  that  their  interference 
only  served  to  embitter  the  poison  on  which  he  fed.  He 
took  an  old  pauper  into  his  house,  stricken  with  many  of 
the  infirmities  of  age,  but  who,  silent  in  her  deafness  and 
indifference  to  life,  could  yet  bring  water  from  the  well, 
dig  up  vegetables  from  the  garden,  prepare  his  meals, 
which  now  he  scarcely  asked  God  to  bless,  and  make  that 
bed  on  which  he  had  lain  with  open  eyes  ever  since  his 
daughter  had  sunk  into  sin  and  shame  ;  for  from  these 
words  he  would  not  depart,  and  dwelt  upon  them  till  his 
whole  mind  was  exclusively  filled  with  hideous  and  dread- 
ful images 

Meanwhile,  various  judgments  were  passed  on  the  un- 


THE    FORESTERS.  ISH 

fortunate  girl  and  her  friends  at  Bracken  Braes.  It  would 
sometimes  seem  as  if  the  human  heart,  even  in  a  state  of 
comparative  innocence  and  simplicity,  found  a  pleasure 
in  the  worst  distresses  that  can  befall  our  common  na- 
ture ;  and  eyes  that  ought  to  overflow  with  compassion, 
are  often  averted  from  suffering  with  a  coldness  that  is 
indeed  absolute  cruelty.  The  young  feared  to  pity  Mary 
Morrison,  lest  their  own  purity  might  be  suspected  ;  and 
the  old  lost,  in  their  anxiety  for  the  virtue  of  their  owa 
children,  the  common  feelings  of  humanity  for  her  whr> 
had  deviated  from  its  paths.  The  censure  was  generally 
loud,  the  pity  in  a  whisper  ;  and  when,  in  a  week  or  two, 
gentler  judgments  and  feelings  arose,  people  were  begin- 
ning to  lose  an  interest  in  what  did  not  immediately  con- 
cern themselves;  and  Mary  Morrison's  name,  if  not  for- 
gotten, was  unpronounced,  as  if  by  general  agreement. 
Neither  was  the  conduct  of  Michael  Forester  and  his 
wife  allowed  to  pass  without  many  comments — some  of 
them  by  no  means  favorable;  but  his  commanding  char- 
acter silenced  open  blame,  and  Michael  was  not  a  man 
to  heed  the  opinions  of  the  timid  or  uninformed,  in  a  case 
where  his  duty  shone  clearly  before  him,  and  where  na- 
ture and  religion  alike  bade  him  shelter  the  orphan 
head.  He  did  by  no  means  despise  the  opinions  of  his 
fellow-creatures  ;  but  his  conscience  was  his  monitor,  and 
a  monitor  enlightened  by  the  Bible.  Therefore,  no  mis- 
givings assailed  the  constancy  of  his  protecting  affection 
towards  poor  Mary  Morrison  ;  and  he  determined  to  see 
her  vindicated  before  the  eyes  of  men,  as  he  believed  her 
to  be  nearly  so  in  the  eyes  of  God. 

The  intensity  of  Lucy's  love  for  Mary  Morrison  ren- 
dered her  wholly  indifferent  to  any  painful  rumors  acci- 
dently  overheard  ;  and  she  also  reposed  a  perfect  reliance 
on  the  judgment  of  her  parents  and  Aunt  Isobel,  which 
would  always  have  reconciled  her  conscience  to  anything 
they  approved.  But  when  she  was  given  to  understand 
that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  no  longer  desired  her  attend- 
ance, then  indeed  a  pang  pierced  her  heart,  and  she  wept 
sorely  over  the  loss  of  such  friendship.  Emma  Cranstoun 
16* 


186  THE    FORESTERS. 

was  the  very  soul  of  candor,  intelligence,  and  pity;  but, 
to  one  in  her  situation,  the  knowledge  of  what  is  trans- 
acting in  the  houses  of  the  poor  must  often  come  in  bane- 
ful whispers,  and,  in  cases  of  error  or  misfortune,  can 
scarcely  fail  of  being  perplexing  and  imperfect.  Lucy 
herself  she  had  not  seen  ;  and  with  one  so  very  young  it 
would  not  have  been  possible  to  converse  on  such  a  sub- 
ject. Emma  Cranstoun,  therefore,  heard  the  truth  with 
every  accompaniment  of  falsehood,  even  from  those  who 
did  not  mean  either  to  deceive  or  traduce.  The  unhap- 
py girl's  stay  at  Bracken  Braes  she  felt  to  place  an  insu- 
perable impediment  in  the  way  of  her  friendship  with 
Lucy  Forester;  and  while  she  still  continued  to  think 
with  affection  and  gratitude  of  all  her  services,  and  with 
almost  unimpaired  admiration  of  her  character,  neverthe- 
less a  necessity  was  imposed  upon  her  to  release  Lucy 
from  her  engagement  at  the  Hirst.-  Such  another  atten- 
dant on  her  sick-bed  she  well  knew  was  nowhere  to  be 
found  ;  but  she  could  not  in  this  matter  run  counter,  not 
only  to  the  determined  resohition  of  Mrs.  Ramsay,  but 
to  the  implied  advice  and  open  remonstrances  of  all  her 
other  friends. 

The  loss  of  the  lady's  love  was  to  Lucy  like  the  dark- 
ening of  the  daylight.  For  several  years  she  had  felt  her 
own  nature  elevated  by  constant  communion  with  such  a 
perfect  being  as,  in  her  enthusiasm,  she  not  very  errone- 
ously considered  Emma  Cranstoun  ;  and  to  be  not  only 
severed  from  that  connTiunidn,  but  thought  no  longer 
worthy  of  it,  sunk  Lucy  in  her  own  esteem  ;  and,  depriv- 
ed of  that  stay,  she  seemed  to  sink  away  back  into  an 
inferior  condition,  such  as  had  contented  her  childhood 
before  that  beautiful  and  beneficent  creature  had  ever 
been  seen  at  Bracken  Braes.  But  for  whose  sake  had 
she  sustained  this  great  loss  ?  For  meek  Mary  Morrison, 
with  whom  she  had  never  had  one  unkind  word  —  with 
whom  she  liad  sat  in  the  same  |>laid  a  hundred  times  be- 
fore she  ever  knew  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  was  in  ex- 
istence—  whom  she  had  called  her  sister,  and,  indeed, 
loved  as  if  they  had  lain  in  one  cradle — and  towards 
whom,  at  all   times,  profoundest  pity  had   mingled  an  in- 


THE    FORESTERS.  187 

expressibic  charm  with  the  joyfuhiess  of  affection.  Lucy 
now  turned  back  her  heart  to  the  past,  and  remembered 
many,  many  words  and  looks,  during  several  years,  which 
she  had  but  little  attended  to;  but  which  now  affected  her 
with  the  knowledge  of  unhappiness  borne  uncomplaining- 
ly by  the  poor  girl  whose  mother  was  dead,  and  whose 
father  was  little  disposed  to  supply  her  loss.  She  won- 
dered how  she  could  ever  have  been  so  blind  as  not  to 
see  Mary's  wretchedness  at  home,  and  thought  now  how 
much  better  it  would  have  been  to  have  wept  along  with 
her  than  to  have  talked  merrily  and  laughed  too  in  the 
sunshine  of  bygone  summer  days.  But  now  amends  will 
be  made  for  all  such  oversight  —  and  sooner  will  the  bird 
forget  its  nest,  than  Lucy  to  supply  hourly  comfort  to 
her  sister.  Mary  Morrison  had  never- spoken  much  even 
in  her  happier  days — for  gentle  smiles  and  affectionate 
eyes  filled  up  the  pauses  of  their  artless  talk  ;  but  now  not 
a  smile  was  seen  —  those  eyes,  as  it  was  fitting  they 
should  do,  rested  on  the  ground,  and  shunned  the  sun- 
shine—  and  her  pale  lips  were  mute,  except  when  a  sigh 
would  have  its  utterance,  and  her  bosom  heaved  in  agony 
to  think  that  one  human  being  could  have  had  the  heart 
to  use  another  as  Mark  Thornhill  had  used  her,  without 
pity  or  repentance,  and  yet  knowing  all  the  time  that 
there  was  a  God  in  heaven  ! 

But  it  was  not  her  own  loss  alone  that  affected  Lucy, 
when  she  thought  of  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst.  "  For  what 
hands  can  tend  her  so  carefully  as  mine  would  have  done? 
—  what  eyes  will  open  at  midnight  so  readily  as  mine  did 
at  the  slightest  whisper,  or  whenever  iny  beloved  bene- 
fiictress  moved  her  head  upon  the  pillow  ?  No  —  not  one 
in  ail  Scotland  could  serve  her  like  me;  or,  like  me,  go 
with  her,  if  she  chose,  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth!"  Then,  something  like  pride  —  a  stirring  of  that 
elevated  spirit  which  virtue  breathes  into  the  simplest  and 
humblest  heart,  and  which  may  prostrate  itself  wholly 
before  Him  alone  from  whose  throne  it  comes  —  rose  to 
Lucy's  support,  and  made  her  lift  up  her  head  undepress- 
ed, with  all  its  golden  ringlets,  till  again  the  lady  lying  lan- 
guid, and  faint,  and  feverish  on  her   couch  —  perhaps  all 


188 


THE    FORESTERS. 


alone  in  that  vast  and  solitary  hall —  appeared  before  her; 
and  then  fain  would  Lucy  have  knelt  before  that  image, 
and  beseeched  her  once  more  to  restore  to  favor  the  ser- 
vant once  beloved,  and  now  more  devoted  than  ever, 
although  the  light  of  that  countenance  was,  alas,  with- 
drawn ! 

In  a  month's  time,  the  heart  of  Mary  Morrison,  in 
some  degree,  revived.  Nothing  but  guilt  need  be  per- 
manently miserable;  and  that  faith  which  she  had  learnt 
from  her  infancy,  and  which,  with  all  his  other  lamentable 
faults,  her  father  had  venerated,  outwardly  at  least,  before 
his  daughter,  was  not  found  a  cold  and  barren  creed,  now 
that  she  read  her  Testament  with  eyes  that  dropped  tears 
on  every  page.  Truly  parental  tenderness  now  met  her 
on  every  occasion,  however  small,  on  which  it  could  be 
shewn.  So  much  affection,  she  thought,  surely  could 
not  thus  be  felt  by  the  good  for  her,  if  she  were  quite 
worthless.  No  restraint  was  laid  on  her  intercourse  with 
Lucy;  and,  above  all  things  else,  that  thought  would 
comfort  her  even  on  the  bed  of  death.  '*  Michael  and 
Agnes  Forester  let  their  innocent  child  sleep  in  my  bo- 
som :  and,  O  merciful  God !  forgive  him,  and  inspire 
with  another  heart,  who  has  fixed  upon  it  a  stain  of  pol- 
lution ;  for  I  thought  that  I  was  his  wife,  and  my  sin  was 
more  in  ignorance  than  from  a  corrupted  heart ;  so,  at 
least,  I  humbly  hope  to  be  judged  at  the  great  day." 

The  unprincipled  man  who  had  thus  betrayed  the  un- 
suspecting and  unprotected  innocence  of  Mary  Morrison, 
had  left  the  country,  and  no  one  knew  where  he  had  gone  ; 
but  Michael  Forester  communicated  all  her  case  to  Mr. 
Kennedy,  and  they  did  not  doubt  that  it  would  be  in  their 
power  some  day  to  establish  proofs  of  her  marriage. 
Meanwhile,  Mary  accompanied  the  family  to  church; 
and,  although  on  the  first  Sabbath  the  trial  was  terrible, 
and  she  would  fain  have  sunk  and  disappeared  down 
among  the  bones,  and  skulls,  and  rotten  coffins  of  the 
grave,  when  she  felt  hundreds  of  eyes,  all  dreadfully  daz- 
zling, upon  her  face,  and  searching  pitilessly  into  her 
soul;  yet  that  coarse  curiosity  could  not  sustain  itself 
against  one  so  perfectly  humbled  in  contrition,  and  sitting 


THE    FORESTERS.  189 

between  such  friends  as  Agnes  and  Lucy.  On  the  fourth 
Sabbath,  the  few  looks  that  sought  her  out,  were  of  the 
most  compassionate  character,  and  sufficient  to  shew  that 
innocence  will  ultimately  triumph,  even  in  this  world, 
dark  and  disastrous  as  may  be  its  days  of  sufferings.  Her 
father  lielonged  to  another  congregation ;  but  he  was 
never  out  of  Mary's  sight  during  the  whole  time  of  ser- 
vice. 

Although  Emma  Cranstoun  did  not  ask  Lucy  to  come 
to  her  at  the  Hirst,  yet  she  knew  too  thoroughly  the 
characters  of  all  at  Bracken  Braes,  to  treat  them  with 
neglect  or  displeasure.  Many  kind  inquiries  still  came, 
and  Lucy  had  even  received  two  or  three  letters,  ex- 
pressed almost  with  her  former  free  affection.  Lucy 
could  not  but  look  forward,  in  her  hopeful  nature,  to 
being  restored  some  day  to  the  place  she  had  left  in  her 
bosom,  and  beside  her  bed;  and,  "perhaps,  even  when 
the  whole  truth  is  brought  to  light,  my  conduct  may  be 
approved,  and  Mary  Morrison  forgiven."  But  the  most 
alarming  rumors  respecting  the  lady's  health  were  now 
prevalent  over  the  whole  parish.  Mr.  Kennedy,  evident- 
ly, spoke  as  if  his  fears  were  greatly  increased ;  and 
Lucy  often  awoke  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  shrieking 
out  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  was  dying  or  dead. 
More  than  once,  too,  had  she  dreamed  of  recovery  and 
reconcilement ;  and,  on  awaking,  felt  heaven,  with  all 
its  ecstacy,  changed  in  a  moment  into  this  mournful 
earth. 

Unable  to  endure  all  this  fear  and  all  this  love,  Lucy 
resolved  to  go  to  the  Hirst,  and  find  entrance  to  that 
room  which  she  had  so  often  decked  to  please  her  mis- 
tress' eyes,  and  never  in  vain.  She  knew  that  her  in- 
trusion would  cause  no  disturbance,  and  that,  if  turned 
away  from  the  gate,  her  tears  would  drop  to  the  ground 
in  silence.  No  angry  frown,  she  felt  assured,  would  fall 
upon  one  who  had  so  often  sung,  in  Emma  Cranstoun's 
hearing,  hymns  in  praise  of  their  God  ;  and  the  gracious 
lady  who  had  so  often  smiled  upon  her  dutiful  Lucy, 
and  held  her  hand,  when  together  they  knelt  down  in 
prayer  —  the  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  illustrious   an- 


190  THE    FORESTERS. 

cestry,  and  the  child  of  a  peasant,  whose  forefathers  had 
all  been  dwellers  beneath  straw  roofs  —  such  a  one 
would  remember  their  pleasant  devotion,  and,  for  the 
sake  of  their  common  hopes  of  heaven,  perhaps  not  re- 
fuse once  more  to  take  her  back  to  her  bosom.  "  Then, 
too,"  thought  Lucy,  "  I  can  judge  for  myself,  if  there  be 
any  change  on  her  cheek  for  better  or  worse  ;  but  hope 
I  will  never  resign,  till  I  am  forced  to  look  at  her 
grave  !  " 

There  was  no  unfilial  disobedience  in  stealing  away, 
one  fine  winter  morning,  with  a  hesitating  hint  that  she 
was  going  to  Ladyside,  and  directing  her  steps,  as  soon 
as  she  was  out  of  sight,  toward  the  Hirst.  She  soon 
found  herself  on  one  of  those  beautiful  winding  walks 
through  the  woods,  where  she  had  so  often  accompanied 
the  lady  farther  and  farther  on  into  the  solitude  of  the 
waterfalls.  Winter  had  stripped  the  most  of  the  trees, 
and  the  withered  leaves  rustled  mournfully  beneath  her 
feet.  But  still  there  was  sunshine ;  and,  looking  to- 
wards the  hall,  every  window  seemed  on  fire  with  its 
cheerful  illumination.  There  she  distinctly  saw  the 
plants  at  the  window  of  the  greenhouse  ;  and  they  were 
bright,  even  at  that  distance,  with  a  thousand  blossoms. 
Nothing  was  there  to  hint  of  decay  or  death;  and  Lucy's 
heart  leaped  within  her,  in  the  belief  that  many  happy 
years  might  yet  be  in  store  for  Emma  Cranstoun. 

Fearful  as  if  she  had  been  doing  a  thing  that  was 
wrong,  Lucy  glided  up  the  steps  that  connected  the 
greenhouse  with  the  southern  lawn,  and  opened  the 
door,  which  she  had  often  unfolded  to  the  beams  of  the 
morning  sunshine.  She  wasted  not  a  look  —  or,  if  she 
did,  it  was  hurried  and  indistinct  —  on  the  plants  she  had 
tended  and  trained  ;  but,  with  a  beating  heart,  ventured 
into  the  room  where  Emma  Cranstoun  used  to  have  her 
couch;  and  there  indeed  was  the  lady  lying  as  before, 
but  with  half  shut  eyes,  that  opened  as  the  shadow  fell 
on  them  ;  for  Lucy's  feet  were  without  a  sound.  Lucy 
stood  trembling  in  the  smile  of  recognition,  bright, 
beaming,  and  benign  as  it  ever  had  been,  and,  to  the 
heart  now  relieved  from  fear,  even  more  perfectly  beauti- 


THE    FORESTERS.  191 

fu!  in  its  forgiveness.  "  Come  hither,  my  lovely  and 
loving  Lucy,  come  hither  to  my  heart."  And,  although 
nothing  filled  her  outstretched  arms,  the  soft  white  hand 
fell  upon  Lucy's  head,  that  leaned  upon  the  couch,  as 
the  grateful  creature  knelt  down  and  sobhed  in  her  hap- 
piness, too  mournful  to  be  endured. 

Emma  Cranstoun  gave  orders  that  no  one,  not  even 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  should  disturb  her;  and  listened,  with  the 
deepest  interest,  to  Lucy's  simple  and  innocent  eloquence, 
when  telling  all  she  knew  of  the  wickedness  that  had  be- 
trayed Mary  Morrison.  The  power  of  truth  was  in  every 
word,  and  Emma  Cranstoun  asked  Lucy  Forester's  for- 
giveness. That  request  was  something  too  overpower- 
ingly  affecting  to  a  heart  that  looked  up  to  her  as  to  a 
superior  being  ;  and  Lucy  beseeched  her  to  recall  such 
words,  for  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  do  wrong,  and 
that  every  one  at  Bracken  Braes  had  all  along  said  that, 
till  Mary's  character  was  cleared,  no  one  from  the  family 
could  ever  dare  to  shew  their  face  at  the  Hirst.  "  But 
last  night  I  had  a  foretaste  of  this  happiness  in  a  dream, 
and  will  henceforth  believe  that  dreams  are  sent  from 
heaven." 

Lucy  knew  that  her  benefactress  must  not  be  allowed 
to  speak  much  in  her  exhausted  condition,  and  feared 
that  she  had  sorely  wearied  her  by  exciting  too  many 
feelings  for  Mary  Morrison.  "  Say  not  so,  my  Lucy, 
for  you  have  placed  my  pillow  so,  that  the  most  delight- 
ful rest  is  over  my  whole  frame,  and  that  voice  of  thine 
is  the  best  of  all  restoratives."  All  apprehension  of  dis- 
pleasure now  wore  away,  and  Lucy  kept  her  seat  by  the 
side  of  the  couch,  or  obeyed  the  lady's  bidding  at  word 
or  sign,  in  all  the  little  arrangements  about  the  room, 
with  the  same  noiseless  alacrity  that  she  had  learned 
long  ago,  when  first  her  father  had  been  stricken  blind; 
and  that  made  her,  indeed,  in  sober  truth,  a  ministering 
angel  at  a  sick-bed. 

It  was,  however,  impossible  for  Lucy  not  to  see  that 
the  frame  of  her  mistress  was  weaker  and  more  emaciated 
than  before,  and  that  her  voice  had  a  ftiinter,  almost  a 
hollow,  sound.     Alive  as  she  \vas  to  hope  in  all  sorrow, 


192  THE    FORESTERS. 

yet  she  never  foolishly  shut  her  eyes  to  the  truth,  merely 
because  it  was  distressing;  and  the  truth  now  too  plainly 
was,  that  Emma  Cranstoun  was  not  so  well  as  she  had 
been  a  few  weeks  ago.  Lucy,  therefore,  did  not  wait  to 
be  asked  to  reniain  at  the  Hirst,  but  implored  permis- 
sion. "  If  Mrs.  Ramsay  dislikes  me,  and  still  objects, 
on  Mary's  account,  to  my  being  here,  O  send  for  Mr. 
Kennedy,  and  ask  his  advice  as  to  the  propriety  of  your 
Lucy  being  again  allowed  to  be  your  servant.  Perhaps 
Mrs.  Ramsay  will  not  dislike  or  condemn  it,  if  Mr.  Ken- 
nedy says  it  is  not  wrong.  Then  my  cousin  Martha  is 
one  of  the  best-hearted,  most  obliging  girls  that  ever  was 
known,  and,  indeed,  is  far  more  useful  about  the  house 
than  I  am,  do  what  1  will.  They  will  miss  me  now  less 
than  ever  ;  and,  Oh  I  what  a  relief  to  poor  Mary  Morri- 
son's heart  to  know  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  has  taken 
me  into  her  service  once  more,  in  spite  of  all  that  ever 
was  said  against  her  in  her  affliction  and  her  innocence." 
The  snow  was  falling  thickly,  and  the  afternoon  had 
become  full  of  gusts — the  tree-tops  bending  low,  and 
their  red  leaves  careering  in  eddies.  Lucy  wrote  a  letter, 
with  her  own  hand,  to  her  father  ;  for  she  had  always  ad- 
dressed him  in  her  correspondence  since  she  could  write 
at  all,  telling,  in  a  few  words,  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst 
had  forgiven  them,  even  Mary  Morrison  herself;  and,  al- 
thoucrh  Mrs.  Ramsay's  natural  temper  was  not  the  best 
in  the  world,  and  her  judgments  not  a  little  warped,  yet 
her  intentions  were  good,  and,  before  night,  she  had 
brought  herself  to  regard  Lucy  with  not  a  little  kindness. 
A  good  share  of  trouble,  too,  was  about  to  be  taken  off 
her  own  hands  ;  although,  to  do  the  good  lady  justice, 
she  never  grudged  trouble,  fond  as  she  was  of  descanting 
on  her  meritorious  services;  and,  having  the  sincerest 
affection  for  Emma,  who,  without  sacrificing  any  of  her 
own  independence,  always  treated  the  old  lady  with  re- 
spect, she  was  even  happy  to  think  that  there  was  now  a 
young  person  whom  Emma  loved  constantly  with  her ; 
so  that  she  gave  orders,  with  a  pleasant  countenance, 
about  Lucy's  bed,  that  had  been  removed,- but  was  now 
soon  wheeled,  with  its  pretty  curtains,   into  its  niche  in 


THE    FORESTERS.  193 

the  wall,  and,  to  Emma's  eye,  gave  the  whole  room  an 
instant  look  of  cheerfulness  that  already,  in  some  meas- 
ure, restored  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    ^XXIII. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst 
had  restored  Lucy  Forester  to  her  favor,  and  thereby  de- 
clared her  approbation  of  her  father's  conduct  in  the 
melancholy  affair  of  Mary  Morrison,  that  unfortunate 
creature's  situation  was  regarded  in  a  very  different  light 
by  all  the  firesides  in  the  parish.  Innocence  will  be  vin- 
dicated at  last,  and  every  heart  that  has  been  conscious 
of  cruelty  or  injustice  to  a  fellow  creature,  is  afterwards 
fain  to  make  amends  by  additional  tenderness  and  com- 
rniseration.  Mary  was  not  long  of  discerning  a  decided 
change  in  the  expression  of  almost  all  countenances;  and 
life,  that  had  for  some  time  been  a  burden,  was  not  only 
lightened,  but  a  stealing  sense  of  happiness  came  over 
her  worn-out  heart,  and  her  eyes  were  able  once  more, 
not  only  to  endure,  but  to  enjoy  the  sunshine. 

Michael  Forester  did  not  proceed  rashly  in  his  deter- 
mination to  establish  proofs  of  Mary's  marriage  with 
Mark  Thornhill,  but  he  allowed  the  truth  gradually  to  be 
brought  out  almost  of  its  own  accord.  One  of  the  wit- 
nesses, he  found,  had  gone  beyond  seas;  but  the  other, 
a  woman  of  indifferent  character,  he  had  traced  to  Edin- 
burgh ;  and  there  was  a  certainty  of  his  bringing  the 
nefarious  conspiracy  to  light,  when  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence itself  was  stretched  out  in  the  cause  of  the  inno- 
cent. Mark  Thornhill  was  stopped  short  in  his  wicked- 
ness by  a  mortal  fever;  and,  on  his,  dying  bed,  remorse 
urged  him  to  a  full  confession,  Mary  Morrison  he  ac- 
knowledged to  be  his  lawful  wife;  and,  in  a  few  days 
afterwards,  she  was  a  widow. 
17 


194  THE    FORESTERS. 

Released    from    ignominy    and    disgrace,    Mary    now 
yielded  herseli  up  to  the  deepest  grief;   for,  in  spite  of  all 
his  merciless    barbarity,  she    felt  that  she    had   still   con- 
tinued to  love  Mark  Thornhill.      His  death-bed  repent- 
ance, whatever  others   might  think   of  its   severity,  was 
accepted  of  by  her  as  far  more  than  an  atonement  for  all 
the  sins  he  had  committed  against  her  peace  ;   and  had  it 
pleased  God  to  spare  his  life,  she  would  have  been  willing 
to  have  been  taken  to  his  bosom,  and  to  have  shewn  how 
perfect  could  be  the  forgiveness  of  a  Christian  wife.     The 
time  surely  once  was  when   he   had   loved  her,  nor  could 
anything  ever  efface  from   her  remembrance  the  impres- 
sions of  his  tenderness  to  her  in  the  first  season  of  their 
love,  when,  probably,  he  designed  no  evil,  and  spoke  the 
truth,  when  he  said  that  he  loved  her  for  her  modesty  and 
her  innocence.     A  dreadful  change  had,  indeed, ensued  ; 
and  she  had   become  the  victim  of  a  wickedness  that  he 
himself  had  not  known  to  be  in  his  heart,  till  gradually  it 
had   risen  up  in   greater  and  greater   power,  and  driven 
him,  at  last,  to  the  very  verge  of  inexpiable  crime.     Mary 
Morrison  had  been  taught,  and  truly  taught,  by  the  stern 
Calvinism  of  her   own   father,  that  the   human   heart  is 
desperately  wicked  ;  and,  now  that  her  husband  was  dead, 
she  judged   him  in  the  light  of  that  awful   doctrine,  and 
saw,  in  his  miserable  guilt,  that  of  fallen  and  corrupted 
naturer     Above  all  other  considerations,  he  had  now  been 
called  to  judgment  ;  and  she  humbly  hoped,  not  without 
many  inevitable,  although,   perhaps,   unavailing  prayers, 
that  as  great  sinners  as  he  may  have  been  ransomed  into 
the  mercy  of  the  Eternal. 

But  gracious  nature  would  not  suffer  Mary  to  remain 
long  utterly  disconsolate.  The  calm  of  the  grave  —  so 
very  profound  —  soon  began  to  inspire  her  with  a  con- 
genial tranquillity  ;  and  the  melancholy  creature,  not  yet 
eighteen  years  of  age,  walked  about  the  quiet  retirement 
of  Bracken  Braes,  in  her  widow's  weeds,  with  a  compo- 
sure that  promised  a  life  of  sufficient  happiness  to  one  so 
contented  and  resigned.  Her  early  youth  had  suffered 
the  sorrows  that  belong  to  advanced  age  ;  but,  although 
the  light  of  joy  had  been  sorely  darkened,  it  was  not  for- 


THE    FORESTERS.  195 

ever  eclipsed,  and  might  yet  shine  upon  her  steadily,  if 
not  briglitly,  at  Ewebank,  in  her  father's  house,  if  that 
door  was  again  to  be  opened  to  one  who  ought  never  to 
have  been  driven  from  its  shelter. 

Abraham  Morrison  had  shewn  himself  to  be  what  every- 
body now  called  an  unnatural  father.  But  had  he  been 
really  so,  an<i  had  God  frowned  at  all  times  upon  his  gray 
head  since  that  evening  when  he  cursed  his  child  away 
from  the  hut  in  which  she  had  been  born?  In  tliat  dark 
and  disturbed  tumult  of  many  passions,  He  who  formed 
the  heart  may  have  seen  what  was  hidden  from  human 
eye,  for  he  alone  judges  aright,  in  his  omniscience,  the 
secrets  that  wring  the  souls  of  the  children  of  men.  That 
unforgiving  father  had  not  been  altogether  deserted  in 
his  childless  hut.  Many  a  thousand  times  in  the  dark- 
ness of  midnight,  or  the  worse  darkness  of  the  unvisited 
day,  had  every  shadow  of  anger  left  his  wrinkled  face, 
and  every  feeling  of  anger  flown  far  away  from  his  heart. 

Tossed  had  his  exhausted  frame  been  in  such  solitary 
seasons,  like  a  bark  upon  the  sea,  when  every  living  thing 
has  left  the  wreck.  Often  and  often  had  he  risen  up, 
like  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  and  implored  God  to  send 
him  back  his  child  ;  kissed  the  pillow  on  which  her  once 
innocent  cheek  had  lain,  and  recalled  every  curse  he  had 
ever  imprecated  against  her,  with  tenfold  destruction  on 
his  own  unhappy  head.  But  then  evil  v.hisperings  came 
close  by  his  ear  from  every  corner  of  the  dark  dwelling; 
fingers  pointed  at  him  scornfully  ;  and  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  congregation,  as  they  sat  in  God's  own  house, 
turned  upon  him,  the  father  of  her  who  had  sold  herself  to 
sin  and  to  shame.  In  his  half  waking  dreams  there  was 
a  hissing  as  of  serpents;  and  a  hand  writing  on  the  lowly 
walls,  instigated  him  in  his  delirium  to  keep  this  outcast 
sinner  under  the  pursuing  vengeance  of  a  father's  ban. 
Then  the  long  habits  of  an  unindulgent,  indeed  an  unfor- 
giving spirit,  strengthened  the  power  of  all  these  phan- 
tasms; and  thus  fighting  against  all  the  most  sacred  emo- 
tions and  instincts,  which  were  often  victorious,  and  as 
often  overcome,  he  had  sunk  into  a  sort  of  insanity,  which 
is  the  more  dreadful,  because  its  victim    believes  himself 


196  THE    FORESTERS. 

to  be  obeying,  not  only  the  law  of  nature,  but  the  com- 
mand of  a  superior  and  inexorable  power. 

Michael  Forester  knew  the  character  of  Mary's  father 
well,  and  had  not  forgotten  the  la.st  parting  scene  at  Ewe- 
bank.  Therefore,  after  her  complete  vindication,  by  the 
side  of  her  husband's  death-bed,  he  still  advised  her  to 
remain  with  them  at  Bracken  Braes  till  a  fit  time  might 
come  for  reconciliation.  Neighbors  were  told  to  step  in 
upon  Abraham  now  and  then  at  Ewebank,  and  by  their 
more  free  and  cheerful  manner  of  talking,  to  shew  that  a 
change  was  taking  place  in  the  opinions  of  all  re.specting 
his  daughter.  Ere  long,  something  like  the  full  truth 
was  revealed  to  him  by  successive  glimpses  ;  and  Michael 
at  last  ventured  to  send  a  message  to  him  by  a  person 
whom  he  greatly  respected,  that  he  would,  in  a  few  days, 
come  over  to  Ewebank,  and  he  trusted  not  to  leave  it 
till  he  had  convinced  his  friend  that  Mary,  who  had 
surely  been  a  wife,  and  was  now  a  widow,  ought  to  be 
taken  back,  without  any  upbraidings,  into  her  father's 
house. 

Michael  Forester  chose  the  Sabbath  day  for  this  work 
of  love  and  righteousness.  Agnes  and  Isobel  accompanied 
him  to  Ewebank  ;  and  they  all  three  walked  silently  and 
solemnly  into  the  room  where  Abraham  was  sitting,  with 
the  open  Bible  before  him  — and  the  old  pauper  reading 
her's  likewise,  in  a  nook,  by  herself — for  a  while  unob- 
servant of  their  entrance.  Abraham,  although  too  weak 
to  walk  to  the  kirk,  even  although  his  unhappy  feelings 
had  suffered  him  to  do  so,  was  decently  clad  in  his  Sab- 
bath apparel,  and,  being  prepared  for  a  visit,  received 
them  M  ith  surprising  fortitude.  "  1  again  ask  a  blessing 
upon  this  house,"  said  Michael ;  and  these  few  words 
were  heard  efficaciously  in  the  silence.  The  aged  at- 
tendant placed  her  spectacles  in  her  Bible,  and  walked 
out  of  ihe  hut.  Then  Abraham  felt  his  conscience  smile 
him  like  a  death  knell,  for  the  presence  of  those  who  had 
received  his  daughter  into  their  house  when  her  father 
would  have  driven  her  out  even  into  the  winter's  snow, 
dispelled  all  those  distempered  thoughts  by  which  he  had 
blinded   his  moral   understanding,  and    he   knew  that  he 


THE    FORESTEKS.  197 

had  sinned  against  nature  and  against  God.  "  My  bairn 
will  never  forgive  me,  though  meek  Mary  Morrison  was 
ay  the  name  she  bore  ;  for  didna  you  see,  Mr.  Forester 
—  no,  you  saw  it  not,  for  the  Ahnighty,  who  burned  out 
your  eyes  vviih  his  ligiitning,  saved  them  from  that  pollu- 
tion ;  but  your  Lucy  saw  it ;  and  I  wish  you  all  to  hear 
me  confess  it  with  my  wicked  gray  hairs  in  the  dust  : 
your  Lucy  beheld  this  hand,  which  may  yet  wither  in  the 
unquenched  fire,  smite  my  daughter  as  she  knelt  before 
me — ay,  smite  her  on  the  temples,  till,  without  one 
groan,  she  stretched  herself  out  like  a  corpse  upon  this 
very  floor."  At  these  words  Abraham  Morrison  laid 
down  his  head  in  the  white  ashes  on  the  hearth,  and 
sprinkled  them  over  it,  saying  —  "  Is  this  remorse,  is  this 
repentance,  or  must  I  feed  the  worm  that  never  dies,  and 
for  me  shall  my  Saviour  have  in  vain  been  nailed  upon 
the  tree  ?" 

No  one  moved;  but  they  suffered  the  passion  of  the 
contrite  man  to  take  its  course.  Then  said  Isobel  — 
"  Fear  not,  my  friend,  but  that  this  Sabbath  sliall  indeed 
be  unto  thee  a  day  of  rest.  Even  at  this  very  hour  is  the 
psalm  perhaps  rising  to  the  throne  of  God  from  the  kirk 
of  Ferns,  in  which,  although  for  some  time  absent,  you 
have  been  for  many  long  years  a  worshipper.  In  that 
congregation  you  will  yet  sit  with  Mary  at  your  side, 
happier  than  you  have  been  for  many  hundred  Sabbaths  ; 
nor,  Abraham,  is  your  daughter  even  now  far  distant  from 
you  —  she  and  Lucy  are  on  the  hill  side,  looking  down 
upon  the  dwelling  in  which  she  long  thought  herself 
happy,  and  below  whose  roof,  fain  is  she,  with  a  loving 
heart,  once  more  to  return !  " 

Agnes  had  gone  quietly  out  of  the  room  when  Abraham 
had  given  way  to  that  fit  of  passion  ;  and  she  now  came 
back,  but  not  unaccompanied  ;  for  Mary  Morrison,  in 
deep  mourning,  walked  in  with  her  and  Lucy,  and  then 
advancing  a  iew  steps,  stood  before  her  father.  There 
was  no  agitation  on  her  countenance;  for  her  soul  was 
prepared  for  this  meeting,  and  it  had  gone  through  such 
sorrows,  that  it  was  now  found  equal  to  any  trial.  She 
17* 


198  THE    FORESTERS. 

came  not  to  forgive,  but  to  be  forgiven;  and,  in  a  calm, 
low  voice,  asked  if  her  father  would  take  back  to  his 
bosom  his  repentant  child.  Her  face  was  quite  pale,  but 
also  quite  happy ;  it  did  not  seem  that  she  trembled  ; 
and,  as  her  father  stood  motionless,  with  his  hands  before 
his  eyes,  Mary  walked  up  to  him  with  wonderful  com- 
posure, and,  putting  her  arms  round  his  neck,  kissed  his 
cheek  almost  as  placidly  as  if  on  returning  home  from  an 
annual  visit  to  a  friend's  house,  and  then  leaned  upon  his 
breast,  half  supporting  and  half  supported  by  him  who 
had  held  her  up  in  baptism,  joyful  in  the  smiles  of  his 
first-born. 


CHAPTER    XXXI V. 

The  winter  sometimes  passes  away  as  if  that  season  of 
the  year  had  been  imperceptibly  Mended  with  the  autumn 
and  the  spring,  and  from  December  to  April  the  earth 
lies  with  little  diminution  of  its  cheerful  character  below 
the  beautiful  uncertain  weather.  In  a  pastoral  country 
of  hills,  such  months  are  especially  pleasant.  All  the 
small  rivulets  are  kept  perpetually  alive  and  transparent 
in  their  grassy  or  pebbly  beds  —  the  flocks  feeding  on  the 
braes,  repose  while  in  the  fitful  sunshine,  just  as  in  the 
warmth  of  summer  —  and  frequently  the  whole  air  is  fill- 
ed with  insects  sent  up  from  the  rushes,  or  crevices  of 
the  rocks  in  their  ephemeral  festivals.  If  here  and  there 
in  the  clefts  on  the  mountain  tops  some  patches  of  snow 
are  seen,  they  serve  only  to  make  the  faded  verdure  of 
the  pastures  below  appear  brighter.  The  little  moorland 
birds  are  heard  twittering  long  before  Valentine's  day  ; 
and  the  flocks  of  fieldfares  are  more  shy  than  when  in 
severe  storms  they  alighted  among  the  drifts,  and  could 
with  difficulty  find  their  food  on  the  winter  fallows. 
Then,  at  the  time  of  merry  Christmas,  neighbors  have  to 


THE    FORESTERS.  '        199 

find  their  way  to  each  others'  houses  by  more  circuitous 
paths,  according  to  the  position  of  the  bridges  ;  for  no 
stream  is  frozen,  and  perhaps  the  low  lands  are  flooded 
or  full  of  pools,  like  the  seashore  at  the  flowing  tide. 
The  crowing  cocks  are  distinctly  heard  in  the  calm  from 
house  to  house  to  a  great  distance;  and,  from  the  hill 
side,  the  shepherd  can  count  a  hundred  wreaths  of  smoke, 
seemingly  settled,  for  hours  together  —  so  breathless  is 
the  atmosphere  beneath  the  blue  firmament  and  all  its 
fleecy  clouds. 

Such  had  been  the  character  of  this  open  winter  in  the 
parish  of  Holylee;  and  not  a  homestead  within  all  its 
bounds  more  enjoyed  the  temperate  season,  or  looked 
more  beautiful  under  its  variable  colorings,  than  Bracken 
Braes.  Indeed,  there  had  scarcely  been  a  single  day, 
since  Lucy  went  to  the  Hirst,  on  which  the  family  could 
not  sit  below  the  plane  tree.  Its  hard  healthy  buds  seem- 
ed impatient  for  the  full  spring  ;  while  the  lilacs  and  horse- 
chestnuts,  all  the  way  down  the  avenue,  when  tinged  by 
the  sunlight,  were,  in  the  early  part  of  February,  as  far 
forward  as  they  had  sometimes  been  at  the  middle  of 
March.  The  primroses  shewed  themselves,  as  it  seemed, 
almost  before  the  glory  of  the  last  year's  garden-flowers 
was  forgotten  ;  and  the  geraniums  and  myrtles  were  oft- 
ener  left  out  on  the  sloping  bank,  for  hours  together,  than 
they  had  ever  been  in  any  one's  remembrance.  There 
had  even  been  blossoms  on  the  fruit-trees  before  the  ear- 
liest bird  had  begun  to  build  its  nest;  and  that  earliest 
bird  was  the  thrush,  that  again  hung  its  cradle  in  the 
Traveller's  Joy,  descending  like  often  altered  drapery 
over  the  parlor  window. 

Michael  and  Agnes  were  without  their  Lucy,  and  yet 
they  had  never  been  more  perfectly  happy.  Always  on 
the  Sabbaths  she  came  into  her  father's  seat  in  the  kirk, 
and  sometimes  went  with  them  to  Bracken  Braes  —  walk- 
ing over  to  the  Hirst  before  dark,  or  in  the  moonlight. 
The  dear  stranger  thus  contiilually  restored  her  parents' 
hearts,  and  carried  her  real  presence  in  upon  the  cher- 
ished image  of  her  absent  beauty.  Every  Sabbath  Agnes 
and  Isobel   thought  they  discerned   some  new  sweetness 


200  THE    FORESTEKS. 

in  her  appearance  or  manner;  as  for  Michael,  he  desired 
but  to  hear  her  voice,  and  was  satisfied.  Martha,  in 
whose  disposition  envy  or  jealousy  had  no  place,  and  who 
now  felt  that  she  owed  every  day  new  obligations  to  her 
uncle  and  aunt,  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her  admiration 
of  her  incomparable  cousin,  and  knew  that  she  could  not 
more  acceptably  prove  her  gratitude 

But  in  no  other  house,  for  many  miles  round,  had  there 
been  such  a  change  for  the  better,  in  all  things,  as  at 
Ewebank.  It  had  not  pleased  Providence  to  grant  to 
Mary  Morrison,  in  early  widowhood,  the  comfort  that 
breathes  from  the  cradle  —  for  her  baby  died  almost  as 
soon  as  born  ;  but  Mary  considered  that  affliction  as  part 
of  the  punishment  of  her  disobedience.  Herself  deceived 
by  her  unhappy  husband,  she  had  been  prevailed  upon  by 
him  to  deceive  her  father;  and  she  had  lived  sorely  to 
rue  that  clandestine  and  irregular  marriage.  Her  father 
was  now  an  altered  man  indeed  —  patient,  even  mild  — 
and  under  the  power  of  a  pious  penitence.  The  change 
had  not  been  imposed  upon  him  from  without,  and  there- 
fore liable  to  other  change  and  relapse;  but  it  had  been 
worked  out  by  his  own  spirit  fighting  with  itself — the 
better  part  finally  triumphant.  Pride,  stubbornness,  and 
a  wilful  hardihood,  had  been  his  besetting  sins;  but  now 
all  these  were  gone,  and  Abraham  Morrison  was  gentle 
as  a  child  to  her  who  had  for  so  many  years  trembled  at 
his  frown,  and  loved  him  with  a  troubled  heart.  Besides, 
Abraham  felt  that  he  could  not  be  a  long  liver;  and  every 
day  seemed  more  and  more  anxious  to  make  amends  to 
Mary  for  all  the  evils  which  his  former  neglect  or  cruelty, 
fdr  more  than  her  own  error,  had  brought  upon  her,  in 
those  very  years  which  nature  holds  privileged  from  any 
rueful  distress.  Sometimes  when  the  sunshine  broke 
suddenly  in  upon  them  sitting  by  the  fireside,  or  as  she 
was  going  about  her  work,  with  the  constant  approval  of 
her  father,  Mary,  in  spite  of  her  great  misfortunes,  felt  a 
strong  spirit  of  happiness  expanding  her  bosom,  and  she 
would  start  to  hear  her  own  voice  humming  some  cheer- 
ful air,  which  perhaps  she  had  warbled  with  Lucy  Fores- 
ter on  the  Govvan  Green. 


THE    FORESTERS.  201 

It  was  the  general  opinion  over  all  the  parish  that  Lucy 
Forester  had  saved  the  life  of  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst. 
Even  the  proud  and  stately  Mrs.  Ramsay,  who  with  diffi- 
culty could  bring  herself  to  see  either  merit,  beauty,  or 
virtue  in  any  one  of  what  she  called  plebeian  birth,  had 
been  drawn  against  her  will  into  an  affection  for  her,  and 
treated  Lucy  with  all  the  kindness  that  her  peculiar  man- 
ners would  permit.  Etnma  Cranstoun  had,  during  the 
whole  winter,  been  exactly  in  that  precarious  state  in 
which  any  neglect,  or  even  injudicious  care,  might  have 
proved  fatal,  and  in  which  even  the  silence  of  unaccom- 
panied solitude  might  have  insupportably  weighed  down 
her  spirits  to  death.  But  Lucy  was  always  with  her,  and 
that  was  enough,  whether  mute  or  speaking ;  her  looks, 
motions,  and  words  were  all  timed,  and  measured,  and 
toned  by  the  nicest  observations  that  a  naturally  fine  mind 
could  make  under  the  influence  of  affection  ;  and,  not 
only  no  touch,  but  no  breath  even,  was  too  rudely  applied 
to  the  lady's  fame,  that,  like  the  leaf  of  the  sensitive  plant, 
would  have  shrunk  into  a  tremor  at  the  slightest  violence, 
during  that  illness  in  which  the  immortal  soul  may  be 
stricken  into  anguish  by  a  cloud  darkening  the  day,  or 
the  leaves  rustling  against  the  window.  From  November 
till  May,  Emma  Cranstoun  had  never  left  her  room;  but 
now  the  summer  was  again  at  hand,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
she  was  to  leave  the  Hirst,  and  seek  new  strength  in  the 
air  of  Italy.  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  to  take  her,  for  at  least 
a  year,  to  Genoa,  Florence,  or  Pisa:  the  Hirst  was  to 
lose  its  lady ;  and  Lucy  Forester  to  return  to  Bracken 
Braes. 

Emma  Cranstoun  did  not  despair  of  herself;  and,  al- 
though the  idea  of  taking  Lucy  with  her  to  Italy  had  cer- 
tainly not  only  passed  across  her  mind,  but  even  taken 
possession  of  it,  she  knew  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
do  so  without  cruel  injustice  to  her  parents.  Michael 
Forester  was  perfectly  happy,  no  doubt,  in  his  blindness, 
but  then  he  could  not  live  were  Lucy  away  in  a  foreign 
country  ;  while  to  Agnes,  whose  health  was  by  no  means 
strong,  her  departure  would  seem  like  death.  The  lady 
felt  that  Lucy  had  done  all  the  duties  to  her  that  nature 


202  THE    FOKESTKRS. 

and  religion  could  approve,  and  was  ready,  vvitli  even  a 
hopeful  cheerfulness,  to  embark  on  a  voyage  to  that  beau- 
tiful land,  to  which  so  many  have  sailed,  to  drop  their 
bodies  into  a  foreign  grave. 

It  was  a  sad  day  among  all  the  hills  of  Holy  lee  and 
Ferns,  when  Emma  Cranstoun  was  to  leave  the  Hirst. 
Never  did  June  breathe  a  more  beautiful  summer  than 
had  been  deepening  the  umbrage  of  these  old  woods,  and 
clothing,  even  their  shadiest  recesses  with  a  profusion  of 
wild  flowers.  The  year  was  in  its  perfection,  yet  the 
Hirst  was  in  one  hour  to  be  darkened.  Emma  Cranstoun 
had  many  friends  to  bid  farewell  to  from  the  houses  of  all 
the  gentry,  far  and  near,  who  came  that  day  to  the  Hirst, 
not  on  idle  ceremony,  but  withsincerest  sorrow,  took  Lucy, 
an  hour  before  her  departure,  into  that  green-house,  now 
filled  with  odorous  balm  and  the  brightness  of  a  thousand 
intermingled  blossoms,  and,  joining  in  a  prayer  which 
they  had  often  before  repeated  togetlier,  they  there  sepa- 
rated in  silence  —  Emma  going  to  join  her  friends  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  Lucy  to  her  father  and  mother,  who 
were  in  the  great  hall. 

The  Lady  of  the  Hirst  soon  appeared  gliding  down 
the  wide  staircase,  and  walked  to  her  carriage  through 
the  midst  of  the  whole  tenantry.  There  was  Michael 
Forester,  with  his  head  uncovered,  and  Agnes  weeping 
many  tears;  but  Agnes  was  not  the  only  one  who  wept, 
for  there  were  orphans  and  widows  in  that  crowd ;  and 
they  who  had  no  cause  to  shed  tears,  from  any  afflictions 
in  their  own  lot,  could  not  withhold  them,  when  the 
young,  the  beautiful,  the  charitable,  and  the  pious  was 
seen  taking  her  departure  from  the  house  of  her  fore- 
fathers to  a  foreign  country,  too  probably  never  more  to 
return. 


THE    FORESTERS.  203 


CHAPTER    XXXV 


In  a  few  weeks  Lucy  received  a  letter  from  Emma 
Cranstoun,  written  on  tlie  eve  of  embarkation,  in  a  hope- 
ful spirit ;  and  if  she  read  it  once,  she  did  so  a  hundred 
times,  in  the  room  beside  her  parents,  in  her  own  small 
retreat  beneath  the  plane  tree,  up  upon  the  hill  side,  and 
on  the  Govvan  Green,  half  way  to  the  Hirst,  whose  ex- 
tensive woods  were  visible  from  that  eminence.  The 
handwriting  was  firmer,  Lucy  thought,  than  usual,  and 
she  inspected  the  form  of  every  syllable,  that  she  might 
guess  the  decree  of  strength  possessed  by  the  dear  hand 
that  traced  the  affectionate  words.  There  were  no  mel- 
ancholy fears  or  forebodings  expressed  ;  and  Lucy,  before 
even  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  had  perhaps  left  the  shores  of 
England,  already  anticipated  her  return  in  restored  and 
establislied  health.  Letters  too  were  coming  occasionally 
from  Ellesmere;  not  that  Ruth  Colinson,  or  any  one  of 
the  whole  family  at  the  Vicarage,  were  shining  or  fre- 
quent correspondents  ;  but,  once  in  the  three  months  or 
so,  a  Westmoreland  letter  did  arrive  ;  and  then  the  word 
"Kendal,"  imprinted  with  villanous  post-office  type,  and 
ink  more  villanous  still,  across  the  superscription,  always 
brought  to  Lucy's-  eyes  a  smile  of  cordial  delight.  The 
Colinson's  never  forgot  Martha,  but  sent  her  all  the  news 
they  could  gather  about  the  old  people  with  whom  she 
had  lived,  and  all  her  humble  acquaintances  ;  and  the 
sound  of  the  familiar  names  of  persons  and  places  took 
her  back  again,  in  short  dreams,  to  the  wooded  neighbor- 
hood of  Hawkshead,  and  its  pretty  lake  of  Esthwaite, 
illustrious  alike  for  its  pike,  its  perch,  its  plovers,  and  its 
poetry.  For  Mr.  Thomson,  the  bard  of  Saury,  had  sung 
Martha's  departure  to  Scotland,  which  he  described  as 
an  isle  far  off  in  the  great  seas,  and  remarkable,  as  it  was 
indeed  naturally  to  be  expected,  for  the  multitude  and 
majesty  of  its  Scottish  pines. 

Lucy  and  Martha  were  both  out,  at  some  distance 
from  the  house,  when  an  elderly  straiiger,  of  very  gentle- 


204  THE    FORESTERS. 

many  exterior,  walked  into  the  room,  and  courteously 
saluted  Agnes  and  Michael.  In  a  few  minutes  he  told 
his  name  —  the  father  of  Edward  Ellis.  The  manner  of 
all  present  was  in  an  instant  changed  from  hospitable 
civility  into  the  most  respectful  attention,  and  many 
were  the  inquiries  about  the  health  and  happiness  of  the 
youth,  who  had  so  often  cheered  with  his  conversation 
and  laughter  the  roof  of  Bracken  Braes.  But  it  was  soon 
somewhat  painfully  observed,  even  by  the  blind  man, 
that  Mr.  Ellis'  tone  was  cold  and  constrained,  and  that 
he  was  far  from  meeting  with  sympathy  their  eager  and 
heartfelt  interrogations.  "  My  son  was  at  Rome  when 
I  last  heard  of  him,  and  I  believe  he  will  remain  in  Italy 
at  least  another  year,  when  probably  he  will  visit  Greece." 

The  chilling  influence  of  Mr,  Ellis'  manner  and  dis- 
course soon  froze  Michael,  Agnes,  and  Isobel  into  unac- 
customed silence.  But  the  mystery  of  such  apparently 
uncalled-for  superciliousness  was  soon  explained.  "  Mr. 
Forester,  from  anything  I  can  hear  from  Mr.  Kennedy, 
you  are  an  upright  man,  and  may  be  confided  in  ;  and, 
therefore,  sir,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  visiting  you  in 
your  own  house,  which,  perhaps,  you  may  at  present  be 
thinking  rather  an  intrusion  ;  but  the  truth  is,  that  — 
that  I  was  some  time  ago  made  very  uneasy  about  my 
son  Edward  —  you  will  pardon,  because  you  can  under- 
stand a  father's  anxieties,  Mr.  Forcstar  —  about  my  son 
Edward,  Mr.  Forester,  and  your  daughter  —  her  name,  I 
believe,  is  Lucy.  Now  that  the  ice  is  broken,  Mr.  For- 
ester, I  may  say,  that  the  remotest  chance  of  my  son 
forming  such  a  connection,  could  not  fail  of  being  most 
distressing  —  most  agonizing;  and  I  trust  in  God  that 
you  will  deal  openly  and  honorably  with  me,  and  declare, 
if  there  be  anything  like  an  engagement  —  an  engagement 
of  marriage  —  for  there  is  no  use  in  reasoning  the  matter 
between  those  foolish  children  —  foolish  is  the  word  I 
use,  for,  from  your  daughter's  very  tender  age,  I  feel  per- 
suaded that  there  is  no  occasion  for  a  term  of  severer 
reprehension." 

Michael  Forester  was  almost  entirely  unprepared  for 
such  a  speech  as  this ;  for  although  assuredly,  now  and 


THE    FORESTERS.  205 

then,  he  had  thought  it  very  likely  that  Edward  Ellis, 
in  the  full  flow  of  youthful  enthusiasm,  might  admire, 
even  love  his  Lucy,  yet  judging  justly  of  that  high-souled 
boy,  he  had  never  suffered  the  thought  to  give  him  one 
moment's  serious  uneasiness,  well  knowing  that  his  daugh- 
ter's innocence  was  as  safe  in  her  simplicity  with  Edward 
Ellis,  as  if  she  had  been  his  sister;  and  that  any  love  that 
might  subsist  between  young  hearts,  in  such  very  different 
conditions  of  life,  would  be  little  more  than  that  emotion 
of  common  humanity,  which,  where  the  mutual  objects 
are  worthy,  may  not  only  harmlessly,  but  happily  unite 
in  friendship  those  whom  destiny  must  soon  not  only  part, 
but  keep  for  ever  separated,  excci)t  in  slight  and  transient 
intercourse  on  the  paths  of  life  onwards  even  to  the  very 
grave.  But  there  was  something  not  only  in  Mr.  Ellis' 
words,  but  in  the  tone  in  which  they  were  delivered,  to 
which  Michael  Forester,  poor  and  blind  man  as  he  was, 
had  never  been  accustomed;  and,  raising  him.self  up  with 
natural  dignity  in  his  chair,  he  said,  with  a  gravity  almost 
austere — "My  daughter,  sir,  is  little  more  than  a  child 
—  but  since  such  a  word  as  marriage  has  indeed  been 
coupled  with  the  innocent's  name,  be  assured,  sir,  that 
my  Lucy  would  not  leave  her  blind  father's  side,  if  I  only 
put  my  hand  upon  her  head  —  thus  —  not  for  all  the  rank 
and  riches  in  the  land,  although  poverty,  want,  disease, 
and  death  were,  i#&ll  their  ghastliness,  on  the  floor  of 
this  house." 

The  language  of  Michael,  on  all  occasions  of  any  se- 
riousness  or  importance,  was  perfectly  that  of  a  man  of 
education — in  nothing  vulgar,  and  not  ineloquent  in  its 
simple  and  straight-forward  phrase  —  at  once  clear  and 
emphatic.  Mr.  Ellis,  who,  although  a  good  and  honora- 
ble, was,  in  intellect,  a  very  ordinary  man,  had  not  been 
prepared  for  such  an  interview,  and  felt  the  artificial 
authority  of  his  mere  rank  giving  way  beneath  the  ascen- 
dancy of  natural  endowments.  The  erect  and  command- 
ing frame  of  the  blind  man,  composedly  seated  in  his 
chair,  with  one  hand  upon  his  staff,  as  if  about  to  raise 
himself  up  into  a  standing  posture  —  his  strongly  marked, 
18 


^i06  THE    FORESTERS. 

bin  far  from  harsh  features,  animated  by  sudden  emotion, 
beyond  the  calm  of  that  habitual  thoughtfuiness  which 
the  loss  of  sight  had  induced  —  his  manifest  contentment 
with  his  lot,  which,  so  surrounded  as  he  was,  indeed 
scarcely  seemed  one  of  great  hardship — his  pride,  or 
some  state  of  the  soul  of  a  more  sacred  character,  in  his 
dutiful  and  devoted  child  —  the  affecting  solemnity  of  his 
motions  and  gestures,  every  one  of  which  slightly  betrayed 
a  sense  of  his  comparative  helplessness  and  dear  depend- 
ence on  those  to  whom  heaven's  light  was  not  denied  — 
and  along  with  all  these,  a  deference  which  he  seemed  not 
unwilling  to  shew  towards  one  who,  he  had  been  informed, 
was  greatly  his  superior  in  rank,  as  well  as  the  courteous 
kindness  which  he  owed  to  a  guest  below  his  own  roof, 
and  that  guest  the  father  of  Edward  Ellis  —  one  and  all 
of  these  things,  separate  or  united,  gave  the  stranger  a 
sadden  knowledge  of  something  existing  in  lowly  life,  of 
which  he  had  never  had  any  suspicion,  and  in  presence  of 
which  he  felt  abashed,  humbled,  and  changed  in  a  mo- 
ment from  the  arrogant  and  dictatorial  superior  into  an 
inferior  called  upon  not  to  teach  but  to  learn  —  not  to 
command  but  to  obey.  Mr.  Ellis,  although  confused  and 
confounded,  atteinpted  to  rally  his  spirits;  and,  after  a 
kw  words  of  conmion-place  compliment,  said  that  his 
purse  was  at  Mr.  Forester's  service.  Michael,  although 
a  poor  man,  was  as  independent  in  his  circumstances  as 
any  man  in  all  Scotland  ;  and  if  ever  he  had  been  at  all 
worldly-minded,  and  perhaps  all  people  of  very  energetic 
character,  when  toiling  either  in  mind  or  body  for  the 
good  of  their  family,  are  apt  to  become  somewhat  too 
much  so,  he  had  long  ceased  to  err  in  that  direction ;  for 
blindness  had  made  him  something  better  than  a  philoso- 
pher, and  he  had  found  the  golden  mean  in  moderate  de- 
sires and  a  cheerful  f;iith.  Michael  did  not  even  conde- 
scend to  notice  what  Mr.  Ellis  had  now  said;  but  he  in- 
dulged an  allowable  pride  in  alluding  to  himself  and  his 
condition.  "  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Ellis,  that  in  poor  men's 
huts,  the  best  natural  affections  do  not  reside  in  as  great 
force  and  purity  as  in  the  dwelling  of  the  rich  or  noble  ? 
Is  not  ray  Lucy  as  dear  to  me,  and    for  the  self-same 


THE    FORESTERS.  207 

reasons,  as  your  Edward  is  to  his  father,  and  a  finer  boy 
never  stepped  across  a  poor  man's  threshold  ?  You  have 
hopes — just  hopes  of  your  son  —  and  may  God  in  his 
goodness  cause  them  all  amply  to  be  fulfilled.  You  act 
rightly  in  this  matter.  Your  son  must  marry  a  wife  in 
the  same  rank  of  life  with  himself —  Lucy  Forester  is 
but  tlie  daughter  of  a  peasant.  These  eyes  of  mine,  sir, 
have  not  seen  for  upwards  of  five  years  ;  and  the  last 
time  I  beheld  my  Lucy,  she  was  a  fairy  of  a  thing,  that 
still  slept  in  her  mother's  bosom.  But  although  beauty 
be  but  a  fading,  I  do  not  say  a  worthless  flower,  and  al- 
though I  have  better  gifts  to  delight  me  in  my  Lucy  than 
any  beauty  that  ever  shone  on  maiden's  countenance,  yet 
they  say  my  daughter  is  like  the  mother  that  bore  her  — 
and  there  Agnes  —  there  my  wife  sits  before  you,  and 
judge  for  yourself  if  I  would  exchange  my  lot  with  that 
of  any  other  man  living,  blind  though  my  eyes  be  as  the 
floor  beneath  your  feet." 

In  the  silence  that  succeeded  this  impassioned  appeal, 
Lucy  Forester  came  singing  into  the  room,  with  her  hair 
sportively  wreathed  with  a  garland  of  wild  flowers,  and 
on  seeing  the  stranger,  stood  suddenly  fixed  with  all  her 
glowing  beauty,  in  one  of  nature's  most  graceful  attitudes, 
on  the  floor  of  the  lowly  hut.  "  Lucy,  this  is  Mr.  Edward 
Ellis'  father,"  said  Aunt  Isobel,  anxious  that  the  blush 
that  already  mantled  over  her  brow,  cheek,  and  eyes, 
might  conceal  her  emotion.  liUcy  dropped  a  courtesy, 
with  her  heart  beating  like  a  frightened  bird  in  its  cage, 
and  had  just  strength  to  seat  herself  on  the  stool  by  her 
father's  knee. 

Her  father  put  his  hand  upon  her  head,  from  which 
she  had  just  released  the  garland  of  flowers  that  fell  at 
her  feet,  letting  all  her  rich  golden  ringlets  flow  uncon- 
fined,  and  requested  Mr.  Ellis  to  speak,  that,  before  a 
word  was  said  to  Lucy^  he  might  judge  for  himself  how 
she  received  the  communication.  But  Mr.  Ellis  was 
dazzled  with  the  beauty  of  the  peasant's  daughter,  and 
at  the  same  time  persuaded  by  its  uncommon  sweetness 
that  she  was  altogether  artless  and  innocent,  his  naturally 
kind  and  considerate  character   recovered  itself  from  an 


'208  THE    FOKESTEKS. 

unnecessary,  if  not  an  unworthy,  fear,  and  he  felt  that  it 
would  be  at  once  coarse  and  cruel  even  to  alkide  to  his 
son  after  what  he  had  heard  and  now  saw  of  all  the  in- 
mates of  Bracken  Braes.  All  that  he  said  or  did  was  to 
put  a  letter  from  Edward  into  Lucy's  hand,  with  a  few 
words  of  kindness  ;  and  she,  unable  to  endure  the  scene 
any  longer,  flew  out  into  the  open  air,  and  almost  without 
knowing  whither  her  steps  were  carrying  her,  followed 
the  stream  down  —  down  to  the  linn,  and  the  Howlet's 
Nest,  where  Edward  had  first  learned  to  meet  her  by 
accident  two  summers  ago ;  summers,  alas!  how  swiftly 
flown,  and  never  to  be  equalled  in  beauty  and  in  delight, 
long  as  that  sun  should  shine  in  heaven. 

The  waterfall  was  cheering  the  solitary  dell  with  its 
foaming  murmurs  ;  but  Lucy  saw,  heard  it  not,  or,  if  she 
did,  'twas  like  something  sounding  and  gleaming  in  an 
imperfect  dream.  She  leant,  sick  and  blind,  against  the 
ivy  tree,  and  at  last  opened  the  letter,  in  which  she  felt 
she  was  to  read  something  forever  fatal  to  her  happiness. 
There  were  not  many  lines — and  kind,  perfectly  kind 
they  were  —  but  still  they  were  charged  with  meaning 
not  to  be  misunderstood.  Thenceforth,  Edward  Ellis 
was  to  be  nothing  to  her,  but  a  name,  a  thought,  a  shadow  : 
and,  as  for  herself,  never  more  would  her  image  come 
before  his  eyes  as  he  roamed  over  foreign  lands,  or  sailed 
on  the  bosom  of  the  wide  sea.  Lucy  Forester  wept  in 
grief —  love  —  perhaps  anger  — shall  it  be  said  —  despair? 
She  went  to  the  edge  of  the  pool,  and,  taking  from  her 
bosom  the  keepsakes  Edward  had  given  her  at  the  Hawk- 
stane  Spring,  she  dropped  them,  one  by  one,  into  the 
deep  water  —  all,  all  hut  one,  which  would  not  leave  her 
hand  — the  brooch  which  contained  his  dark  glossy  hair, 
with  two  names  engraved  upon  it  —  "  Edward  to  Lucy." 
She  took  out  the  hair  —  and  then  the  dearest  memorial 
of  all  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  linn.  Now,  indeed,  the 
dream  was  broken,  like  a  foam-bell  upon  the  flowing  wa- 
ters. Not  till  this  moment  had  she  been  completely  un- 
deceived. Yet  there  had  been  no  deceit  —  no  faithless- 
ness—  no  falsehood.  Ignorant  of  themselves,  their  pre- 
sent condition,   and   their   future  lot,   had   Edward   and 


THE    FORESTERS.  209 

Lucy  been  in  the  joy  of  their  mutual  affection.  He  had 
first  come  to  see  the  impossibility  of  their  ever  being  more 
to  one  another  than  they  had  already  been  —  and  now 
Lucy  saw  the  same  truth  with  the  same  sad  conviction. 
"  Vain  creature  that  I  was,  and  void  of  all  understanding, 
ever  to  dream,  for  a  single  time,  in  my  sleep  that  Edward 
Ellis  was,  all  his  life  long,  to  love  Lucy  Forester  !  And 
yet  often,  too  often,  have  I  dreamt  it;  and,  lo !  he  has 
passed  away  from  Holylee  —  from  Bracken  Braes  —  from 
the  linn  and  the  ivy  tree  —  like  a  cloud  ;  and  I  shall  never 
see  his  bonny  face  again  till  my  dying  day  !  "  But,  as 
her  tears  flowed,  her  thoughts  grew  less  and  less  bitter. 
She  now  began  to  recall  all  the  delightful  traits  of  his 
character,  and  to  her  unselfish  nature  that  meditation 
brought  an  alleviation  of  grief.  How  courteous  had  he 
ever  been  in  the  cottage!  —  how  tenderly  polite  to  her 
mother  ! —  how  more  than  respectful  to  her  father  !  —  how 
pleasant  to  Aunt  Isobel  !  But  all  at  once  she  tore  herself 
away  from  the  trysting-place,  and  said  within  her  heart 
that  she  would  never  more  venture  to  revisit  it  —  for  all 
its  beauty,  all  its  blessedness  was  gone,  just  as  the  inde- 
scribable brightness  of  some  too  heavenly  dream,  that  is 
felt  at  the  time  to  be  but  a  dream,  and,  long,  long  after, 
when  it  returns  in  indistinct  remembrance  on  the  soul, 
sheds  something  of  its  yet  unextinguished  light  over  the 
dim,  and  clouded,  and  imperfect  happiness  of  this  waking 
world ! 

Lucy  looked  at  Bracken  Braes ;  but  Edward  Ellis' 
father  might  still  be  sitting  there  —  and  she  dared  not  — 
could  not  again  meet  his  face,  even  in  the  gloaming.  So 
she  sat  down  among  the  broom,  and  did  not  go  home  till 
the  plane  tree  was  standing  quite  visible  in  the  moon- 
light. 


18* 


210  THE    FORESTEnS. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

Long  before  Christmas,  Lucy  Forester  was  happy  as  a 
lark  in  lieaven,  that  cares  not  for  a  few  clouds,  and  often 
is  heard  singing  wlien  there  is  little  or  no  sunshine.  Idle- 
ness is  the  great  bane  both  of  virtue  and  happiness,  but 
she  was  never  idle,  and  putting  at  all  times  her  whole 
heart  and  soul  even  into  the  most  trifling  occupations, 
there  was  literally  no  time  for  regret  or  repining  at 
Bracken  Braes.  Perhaps  it  might  have  seemed  to  those 
persons  who  love  to  indulge  themselves  in  useless  sor- 
rows, that  Lucy  was  a  girl  of  no  steadfast  affections,  since 
she  could  so  easily  get  rid  of  all  mournful  remembrances 
about  Edward  Ellis.  But  how  could  human  life  proceed 
at  all,  except  in  despondency  and  care,  if  the  heart  of  the 
innocent  were  forever  to  retain  its  afflictions?  Losses, 
troubles,  and  death  invade  every  dwelling  on  earth;  but 
there  are  few  dwellings  in  which,  nevertheless,  there  may 
not  be  contentment.  Fleeting  as  human  joys  too  often 
are,  perhaps  they  are  not  more  so  than  human  griefs; 
and,  at  all  events,  it  can  never  be  a  duty  to  brood  over 
recollections  that  enfeeble  our  fortitude,  even  although 
they  may  relate  to  the  best  and  surest  sympathies  of  na- 
ture. 

But  while  all  was  cheerfulness  at  Bracken  Braes,  there 
were  sorrows  in  a  worthy  neighbor's  house,  that  greatly 
affected  Michael  Forester  and  his  whole  family.  Their 
good  friends,  the  Maynes  at  Ladyside,  had,  for  a  consid- 
erable time  past,  suffered  the  very  sorest  distress  that  can 
enter  within  the  doors  of  a  house.  Isaac  the  scholar,  the 
youth  whose  surprising  genius  liad  been  the  glory  of  the 
parish  of  Ilolylee,  had  missed  his  way  in  the  world  —  the 
broad  and  shining  way  of  truth  and  righteousness —  and 
had  brought  himself  to  the  very  gates  of  death.  Michael 
Forester  had  long  suspected  that  his  conduct  had  not 
been  what  might  have  been  predicted  of  a  boy  so  richly 
endowed  with  the  gifts  of  nature.  Jacob  Mayne  far  sel- 
domer  spoke  of  his  son  than  he  had  used  to  do,  and  never 


THE    FORESTERS.  211 

now  with  that  pride  which  once  kindled  in  his  eyes  at 
the  slightest  mention  of  his  name.  But  truth  could  be 
concealed  no  longer  —  all  Isaac's  brightest  prospects  in 
life  had  been  blasted  by  his  own  imprudence,  follies,  and 
vices,  and  he  lay  now  in  a  hopeless  condition  within  his 
father's  house  at  Ladyside. 

Who  can  estimate  the  blessings  of  education,  when  it 
comprehends  within  its  range  almost  every  dwelling  in 
the  land,  and  when  all  the  most  numerous  families  of  the 
very  poorest  men,  up  even  from  the  child  of  six  years  old 
to  thegrandsire  of  four-score,  can  read,  and,  in  due  meas- 
ure, understand  the  Word  of  God,  and  the  written  com- 
mentaries of  man  ?  From  the  humblest  huts  in  such  a 
country  come  sometimes  forth  in  power  the  illuminators 
of  the  race;  while  all  the  ordinary  ongoings  of  life  par- 
take of  a  loftier  character  among  those  who  pass  unknown 
to  the  grave,  along  the  quiet  paths  that  all  end  there  as 
well  as  the  paths  of  glory.  Generations  do  not  then  dis- 
appear merely  like  the  leaves,  but  their's  is  an  undying 
spirit  that  pervades  future  time,  and  invigorates  the  whole 
frame  of  social  life,  thus  continually  increasing  in  strength 
and  beauty.  But  even  this  blessing  is  not  without  that 
alloy  which  mingles  with  all  that  is  most  excellent  in 
man's  estate.  How  many  that  might  have  been  safe  in 
their  simplicity,  employ  knowledge  to  their  own  destruc- 
tion !  Feelings,  in  their  origin  pure  and  high  often  catch 
in  their  progress  a  taint  of  corruption  —  imagination  oft- 
en dazzles  to  betray  —  and  genius  itself,  the  most  envied 
gift  of  Heaven,  has  it  not  too  often  conducted  to  guilt, 
despair,  and  death  ! 

So  had  it  been  with  poor  Isaac  Mayne.  In  earliest 
boyhood,  when  sitting  on  the  brae  herding  the  sheep,  to 
him  had  whisperings  come  of  a  world  of  thought  that  lies 
forever  unknown  to  the  ordinary  peasant.  He  saw  a 
beauty  in  every  little  wild  flower,  in  the  structure  of  every 
blade  of  grass  glowing  with  its  dew-drops,  and  in  the 
drooping  branches  of  the  birch  trees,  imaged  peacefully 
in  the  unsullied  water  they  overshadowed,  which  he  bore 
within  his  spirit  like  an  uncommunicated  secret,  a  very 
burden  of  delight,  which  there  was  no  one  to  share  with 


212  THE    FORESTEUS. 

him  in  his  solitude.  Unassisted  by  advice,  and  led,  as  it 
were,  by  some  sacred  instinct,  Isaac,  before  he  was 
twelve  years  old,  had  pored  over  many  books,  in  which 
his  own  keen  and  bright  genius  enabled  him  to  interpret 
the  character,  whicli,  as  his  intellect  expanded,  all  seem- 
ed as  full  of  hidden  meanings  as  hieroglyphics.  Then 
the  young  enthusiast  left  his  native  hut,  and  walked  into 
the  bewildering  world  of  thought.  But  as  he  became 
familiar  with  all  those  ideal  regions,  he  was  at  the  same 
time  surrounded,  tried,  and  tempted  by  wants,  cares,  de- 
sires, hopes,  and  passions,  that  spring  from  flesh  and 
blood,  course  along  the  veins,  and,  all  unwearied  with 
their  ceaseless  journeyings,  come  and  go  from  the  beat- 
ing or  the  boiling  heart.  Isaac,  as  he  stood  on  the  verge 
of  manhood,  felt  that  there  was  truth  in  the  fiction,  that 
man  has,  indeed,  two  souls.  On  the  wings  of  the  one  he 
soared  into  regions  so  pure  and  high,  that  he  seemed  to 
float  above  this  earth  and  all  its  bewildered  scenery,  like 
an  eagle  aloft  in  the  stainless  ether;  but  on  the  feet  of 
the  other,  made  of  gold  and  clay,  he  walked  through 
haunts  where  danger  lures  on  in  the  shape  of  delight,  till 
at  last  sin  boldly  meets  her  guest  with  undisguised  linea- 
ments, and  stamps  upon  his  very  conscience,  as  with  a 
searing-iron,  the  brand  by  which  she  at  once  recognises 
and  claims  all  those  who  have  sold  themselves  for  the 
price  of  her  irresistible  allurements. 

Yet  it  was  long  —  very  long — after  his  first  great 
lapses,  before  such  a  youth  as  Isaac  Mayne  could  be  de- 
graded by  the  permanent  dominion  of  vulgar  vices.  The 
fineness  of  his  native  genius  saved  him  from  many  pollu- 
tions to  which  coarse  natures  are  prone.  But  no  happi- 
ness of  natural  constitution  can  guard  its  possessor  from 
worse  and  worse  evils,  when  the  eye  of  conscience  has 
been  darkened  or  shut,  and  when  religion  has  evaporated 
into  a  mere  imaginative  feeling,  or  been  narrowed  into  a 
cold  conviction  of  the  understanding.  Therefore  Isaac 
became  at  last  little  better  than  a  vulgar  sensualist:  the 
disorder  in  his  spirit  disordered  his  whole  life;  his  duties 
were  either  neglected  or  despised  ;  his  character,  month 
after   month,  received    a   darker  die;  and  not  only  con- 


THE    FORESTERS. 


213 


scions  of  what  he  now  was,  but  aware  of  what  he  might 
have  been,  he  finally  flung  from  him  the  hope  and  the 
desire  of  restoration,  and  was  willing,  in  the  dawn  of  his 
youthful  prime,  to  shut  his  eyes  forever  on  a  world  which 
had  been  spread  in  its  beauty  before  him  only,  as  it  now 
seemed,  that  he  might  disfigure  and  profane  all  its  most 
holy  charms,  flnd  carry  with  him  to  the  grave  the  miser- 
able remembrance  of  talents  misemployed  or  thrown 
away,  and  of  aspirations  that  once  owned  no  other  source 
than  Heaven,  sunk  now  to  the  level  of  the  lowest  crea- 
tures that  crawl  upon  the  earth. 

What  could  his  ignorant  father,  liis  simple-minded 
mother,  and  his  homely  sisters,  now  know  of  the  suffer- 
ings of  Isaac  Mayne?  They  saw  him  for  some  weeks 
wandering  like  a  ghost  about  the  doors,  and  then  taking 
to  his  bed  in  silence,  refusing  sustenance,  and  sullenly 
shunning  all  concern  even  with  his  parents.  His  were 
failings  they  could  neither  understand  nor  assuage. 
Their  kindnesses  were  directed  to  things  that,  in  Isaac's 
eyes,  were  now  less  than  nothing;  for  what  signified  to 
him  a  smooth  pillow,  food  or  medicine  brought,  with  weep- 
ing eyes  and  the  tenderest  hand,  or  the  silencing  of  the 
wheel,  and  of  every,  the  least  noise  in  that  small  house! 
Isaac  cared  not  about  his  bed  ;  for,  spread  it  as  his  mother 
might,  to  him  it  was  a  bed  of  iron,  and  strewn  with 
thorns ;  prison  would  to  him  have  been  more  acceptable 
than  any  food ;  and  there  were  sounds  in  his  spirit  that 
would  not  cease,  louder  and  more  alarming  than  the  win- 
ter storm.  Jacob  knew  not  where  to  turn  for  comfort, 
seeing  that  his  son's  reason  was  impaired  ;  but,  next  to 
Mr.  Kennedy,  he  looked  for  relief,  if  relief  there  could  be, 
to  Michael  Forester. 

Michael  had  sometimes,  in  his  solitary  meditations, 
thought  that  perhaps  some  day  Isaac  Mayne  might  make 
Lucy  his  wife.  Many  things  must  escape  the  knowledge 
of  the  most  intelligent  of  the  blind  ;  and,  in  this  case, 
Michael  had  been  greatly  deceived  in  the  character  of 
him  whom  he  continued  to  esteem  and  admire,  long  af- 
ter almost  all  others  had  begun  to  regard  it  with  more  than 
suspicion.      He   was  even  occasionally   displeased   with 


214  THE    FORESTERS. 

Lucy  for  her  indifference  or  dislike  to  Isaac  Mayne,  and 
he  hoped  that  as  she  grew  up,  and  saw  more  clearly  and 
widely  into  her  condition,  that  her  heart  might  be  chang- 
ed, and  favourably  inclined  towards  one  of  whom  he  en- 
tertained so  high  an  opinion.  But  Lucy  had  noticed 
many  things  in  Isaac  that  turned  her  from  him  with  feel- 
ings stronger  than  she  wished  to  indulge  towards  any  hu- 
man being;  for  her  eye,  quick  in  her  innocence,  had 
seen  that  Isaac  was  an  unduliful  son,  and  treated  both  his 
father  and  mother  with  disrespect.  Lucy  had  not  been 
mistaken  in  these  observations,  for  when  once  the  soul  of 
a  man  has  stooped  to  any  single  meanness,  another  and 
another  will  not  only  work  in  of  itself,  but  will  be  drag- 
ged over  his  whole  conduct  by  the  very  circumstances  of 
life.  Isaac  had  become  ashamed  of  his  poor  parents ; 
and  there  were  situations  in  which  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able he  would  have  disowned  them  because  of  their  homely 
manners  and  appearance.  The  time  had  been  when  he 
was  proud  to  walk  to  the  kirk  with  his  hard-working  fa- 
ther, and  to  stand  hand  in  hand  with  him  in  the  little 
friendly  ring  of  Christians  at  the  door,  before  the  bell  be- 
gan to  tinkle,  or  Mr.  Kennedy  appeared.  But  he  had  had 
the  wretched  weakness  to  attach  a  painful  importance  to 
the  idle  words  that  he  had  since  occasionally  heard  in  town 
talk  about  low  birth,  humble  origin,  plebeian  blood,  and 
so  forth  —  expressions  which  are  never  heard  from  the 
lips  of  high-born  men,  but  not  unfamiliar  to  the  mouths 
of  the  mean  in  nature  or  condition  ;  and  he  had  almost 
unconsciously  allowed  liimself  to  form  unwarranted  asso- 
ciations of  everything  most  worthy  of  being  admired  and 
imitated  with  a  certain  rank  in  life;  so  that  it  even  pain- 
ed him  to  think  on  the  low  and  thatch-roofed  cabin,  as  it 
might  be  called,  in  which  he  was  born  and  bred  ;  and  it 
would  have  brought  the  red  color  into  his  face,  to  have 
acknowledged,  in  some  companies,  his  humble  but  honest 
origin.  When  he  thought  on  his  mother  even,  and  all  his 
sisters  working  in  the  harvest  field,  or  busy  in  the  byre  or 
the  dairy,  and  then  considered  where  he  might  then  be 
sitting  among  ladies  and  gentlemen,  into  whose  society 
his   distinguished  genius  and  talents  had  procured  him  a 


THE    FORESTERS.  215 

ready  admission,  and  who,  most  assuredly  —  at  least  all 
of  them  whose  good  opinion  was  worth  having  —  did  not 
admire  him  the  less  because  they  indeed  knew  that  he 
was  the  son  of  a  peasant,  Isaac  Mayne  had  often  felt  fool- 
ishly humbled  in  his  own  estimation  —  so  nearly  allied 
are  meanness  and  pride!  What  high  satisfaction  was 
thus  lost  to  this  youth's  soul  !  For,  to  have  striven  as  he 
had  done,  was  indeed  glorious;  and  his  imagination,  un- 
der the  impulse  and  guidance  of  nobler  principles  and 
feelings,  might  have  visited  in  its  dreams  the  braes  of 
Ilolylce,  as  the  only  paradise  on  earth,  and  his  father's 
lowly  mansion  at  Ladyside  as  the  very  centre  of  that  pa- 
radise, from  which  would  have  streamed  alight  that  need 
never  to  have  been  darkened  before  the  eyes  of  filial 
reverence. 

Both  Agnes  and  Lucy  had  once  been  witness  to  a  scene 
in  the  churchyard  of  Holylee,  at  the  close  of  Divine  ser- 
vice, after  which  neither  of  them  had  been  able  to  regard 
Isaac  Mayne  with  their  former  affection.  Several  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  seat  of  the 
Lady  of  the  Hirst,  in  the  little  gallery,  addressed  Isaac  on 
the  dismissal  of  the  congregation,  when  he  was  along 
with  his  parents  and  sisters.  They  had  known  him  in 
Edinburgh,  as  a  young  man  of  genius,  and  were  not 
aware  that  Holylee  was  his  native  parish.  Isaac  had  then, 
under  manifest  uneasiness,  separated  himself  from  the  de- 
cent home  group,  of  whom  no  man  need  have  been  asham- 
ed ;  and  to  an  inquiry  from  one  of  the  party,  who  wer  ethe 
friends  he  had  just  left,  liis  answer  was  vague,  and  imply- 
ing that  his  father,  mother,  and  sisters  might  be  to  him 
almost  strangers.  Lucy  could  not  help  eyeing  him  with 
anger  and  disdain,  while  she  thought,  for  a  moment,  of 
Edward  Ellis;  and  then,  going  up  to  her  blind  father, 
walked  with  him  through  the  crowd,  in  a  pride  known  to 
herself  alone,  but  in  a  beauty  that  attracted  the  gaze  of 
all  the  strangers,  who  at  once  said  to  Emma  Cranstoun, 
—  "  There  is  no  need  to  tell  her  name —  your  descrip- 
tion, partial  as  it  was,  did  not  exceed  the  truth  —  she  is 
indeed  the  Primrose  of  Bracken  Braes." 

But  all  such  remembrances  were  now  dismissed   from 


•216  THE    FORESTERS. 

their  minds  ;  and  Agnes  and  Lucy,  no  less  than  Michael, 
thought  only  on  the  fair  side  of  Isaac's  character.  They 
went  almost  every  forenoon  to  Ladyside ;  and  Isaac,  who, 
day  after  day,  had  become  more  indifferent  to  everything 
about  him,  and  almost  wholly  unobservant,  asked  if  he 
could  see  Lucy  Forester.  His  mother  took  Lucy  to  his 
bedside ;  and  Isaac's  eyes,  for  a  few  moments,  recovered 
their  fine  intelligent  expression,  as  they  were  lifted  up 
towards  her  pale  and  weeping  countenance.  "  God  bless 
Lucy  Forester  1"  said  the  dying  youth ;  and  his  mother 
afterwards  often  assured  Agnes  that  these  were  his  last 
words  ;  yet  Isaac  lived  on  for  two  or  three  weeks  without 
pain,  but  insensible  to  the  world.  The  old  shepherd  dog, 
that  had  been  fourteen  years  in  the  family,  leapt  up  on  his 
bed;  but  Isaac  felt  no  disturbance.  Had  the  flail  been 
sounding  in  the  near  barn,  it  would  have  been  unheard. 
"  My  poor  son,  Mr.  Forester,"  said  Jacob,  in  a  calm 
voice,  "  has,  for  nearly  a  week,  been  past  hearing  our 
evening  psalm."  —  "I  am  happy  to  know  that  you  are  so 
resigned,  Jacob  —  your  wife  and  daughters,  too,  are,  I 
think,  composed."  —  "Ay,  ay,  —  we  have,  in  a  manner, 
taken  farewell  of  Isaac  —  for  you  see  his  mind  is  gone  ; 
but  his  soul  has  not  yet  been  called  away,  and  I -will  not 
give  him  the  last  kiss  till  he  is  dead."  There  was  no  one 
else  in  the  room  at  this  time  but  the  two  fathers  ;  and  Ja- 
cob Mayne,  whose  usual  state  of  mind  towards  Michael 
Forester  was  that  of  reverence,  now  embraced  him  in  a 
sudden  burst  of  agony,  and  cried,  with  a  loud  voice  — 
"  Pity  me,  pray  for  me  —  for  Isaac  —  my  darling  Isaac 
—  the  life,  and  the  light,  and  the  pride  of  this  house  — 
will  never  know  his  father's  voice  more !  " 


CHAPTETl    XXXVII. 

Ladyside  was,  at  all  times,  rather  a  melancholy  looking 
place,  standing  as  it  did,  at  the  very  remotest  end  of  the 


THE    FORESTERS.  217 

valley  of  the  Heriot  Water  —  there  an  insignificant  rivu- 
let, and  at  a  considerable  distance  from  any  other  liabita- 
tion.  The  high  heather  hills  overshadowed  it;  but  there 
were  no  trees  —  for  the  decayed  and  mossy  stumps  of  a 
decayed  forest  could  not  be  called  trees;  and  Jacob 
Mayne  had  never  been  very  well  able,  with  his  narrow 
means,  even  if  he  had  thought  of  it,  to  make  any  plantations, 
either  for  ornament  or  shelter  to  his  cattle.  Its  mournful 
character  was  deepened  on  the  day  of  Isaac's  funeral, 
which  was  on  one  of  those  dim  and  silent  forenoons  that, 
in  early  spring,  breathe  a  pensiveness  over  the  air  and  the 
earth.  No  bleat  of  lambs  was  yet  hcp-rd  over  the  braes 
—  the  birds  had  not  begun  their  carols  ^ —  and  the  perfect 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  feet,  as  friend 
and  neighbor,  one  after  the  other,  at  short  intervals, 
were  coming  in  to  the  funeral. 

The  company  assembled  in  the  kitchen —  a  wide,  low- 
roofed  room,  with  an  ample  chimney  —  in  the  corner  of 
which,  below  the  smoke-stained  beam,  Isaac  Mayne  had 
sat  during  many  a  long  winter  evening,  conning  over  his 
book,  to  the  delight  of  his  proud  father's  heart,  undisturb- 
ed in  his  studies  by  the  noise  of  work  or  merriment. 
Mrs.  Mayne  had,  herself,  with  the  assistance  of  Agnes, 
arranged  all  the  seats  that  very  morning  ;  and  everything 
was  decent  and  orderly  about  the  room.  Many  an  in- 
telligent and  thoughtful  countenance  —  not  a  few  of  them 
with  their  foreheads  sprinkled  with  gray  hairs  —  were 
seen  in  that  circle.  [Some  wine  and  funeral  bread  was 
handed  round,  and  partaken  of  by  all,  after  prayer  from 
Mr.  Kennedy ;  and  then,  going  into  the  open  air,  the 
company  formed  themselves  behind  the  coffin,  which  had 
been  placed  on  the  green  before  the  door,  and  the  pro- 
cession moved  down  the  valley. 

Isaac's  mother  and  sisters  had,  during  the  prayer,  taken 
farewell,  on  the  green,  of  his  mortal  part,  standing  toge- 
ther with  Agnes  and  Lucy  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  party  left 
the  door,  weeping  eyes  followed  it  from  the  window  in 
the  thatch,  down  the  stream,  till,  round  a  small  mount,  it 
disappeared. 

19 


218 


THE    FORESTERS. 


y  The  funeral  company  was  a  large  one —  for  the  Maynes 
were  respected  in  the  parish  ;  and,  as  for  Isaac,  his  fame 
had  spread  far  beyond  its  narrow  bounds;  and  now  that 
he  had  expiated,  even  by  death,  whatever  faults  he  had 
committed,  the  grief  that  went  with  him  to  the  grave  was 
profound  and  universal.  Many  people  who  could  not  be 
invited  to  the  funeral,  nevertheless  came  into  the  church- 
yard, and  all  clothed  in  mourning.  The  children  of 
the  village  school  were  drawn  up  in  a  line  near  the  grave, 
and  the  low  walls  that  enclosed  that  quiet  place  of  burial, 
were  almost  entirely  covered  with  spectators  —  few  of 
them  indifferent  to  the  solemn  scene.  Michael  Forester, 
who,  next  to  tiie  father  of  the  deceased,  was  chief  mourn- 
er, stood  close  beside  him  when  the  coffin  was  lowered 
down,  and  grasped  Jacob's  hand  when  tlie  first  shovelful 
of  earth  said,  without  man's  words,  "dust  to  dust." 

The  silent  party  dissolved  ;  and,  in  an  hour  or  two, 
most  of  them  who  had  composed  it  went  to  their  work 
in  the  fields.  Michael  went  back  with  Jacob  Mayne  to 
Ladyside;  and,  early  in  the  afternoon,  the  whole  family 
sat  down  to  their  meal.  There  were  not  a  great  many 
tears,  and  such  as  fell  at  times  were  not  very  bitter ;  for 
every  heart  had  had  time  to  prepare  itself  for  weeks  before 
Isaac's  death ;  and  now  that  his  remains  were  given  up 
to  invisible  decay,  a  calm  came  down  from  heaven  upon 
the  house  —  and  life,  although  it  had  lost  much,  still  had 
to  them  its  blessings. 

"  Mr.  Forester,"  said  Jacob,  "  many  great  kindnesses 
have  we  received  at  your  hands;  but  this  last  is  the  great- 
est of  them  all  —  religion  itself  has  been  a  mair  unspeak- 
able comfort  to  us  all  on  this  occasion,  because  of  your 
Christian  charity  to  the  afflicted  ;  and  poor  Isaac's  mother 
there,  last  night,  when  sairly  distressed,  and  calling  on 
God  to  comfort  her,  mentioned  your  name,  and  your 
wife's  and  daughter's,  in  her  prayers.  She  is,  as  you 
know,  a  woman  of  few  words;  but  there  naewhere  lives 
ane  wi'  a  mp'r  grateful  heart."  Jacob  then  turned  his 
eyes  towarOo  a  little  bookcase  that  hung  on  the  wall  by  a 
string  fastened  to  a  nail,  and  said  —  "  That  was  the  wark 
o'  Isaac's  ain  hands,  before  he  was  ten  years  old.     Many 


THE    FORESTERS.  219 

and  many  an  hour  have  I  seen  him  at  it ;  and  an  ingenious 
thing  it  is  for  so  young  a  creature.  Tiiese  volumes  were 
the  first  he  ever  bought — wi'  his  ain  money,  too;  for 
we  were  very  poor  in  those  days,  as  ye  ken,  and  Isaac 
was  most  industrious."  But  here  Jacob's  voice  was 
mute,  and  he  walked  out  into  the  open  air.  Michael 
joined  him  there  ;  and,  by  the  long  conversation  that  en- 
sued concerning  Isaac,  the  father's  heart  was  quieted, 
and  believed  that  his  son's  spirit  was  now  happy  in 
heaven. 

Leaving  the  family  at  Ladyside  composed  and  resigned, 
Michael,  Agnes,  and  Lucy,  returned  beneath  the  stars  to 
Bracken  Braes.  Lucy  scarcely  opened  her  lips;  for  she 
thought  of  Isaac's  very  last  words,  and  knew,  now  that 
his  heart  was  still  in  the  dust,  how  much  dearer  she  had 
been  to  it  than  she  had  ever  believed.  His  many  good 
qualities  well  deserved  her  tears,  and  the  remembrance 
of  the  happy  hours  she  had  long  ago  passed  with  him  and 
his  sisters,  when  every  one  loved  and  admired  him  ;  but 
the  thought  that  she  had  been  dearer  to  him  than  even 
his  own  nearest  kin,  and  that  his  affection  for  her  was 
the  last  thing  to  leave  his  soul  on  the  bed  of  death,  touched 
her  with  an  almost  self-upbraiding  sorrow,  and  gave  bis 
memory  a  hold  on  her  secret  bosom,  from  which  she  felt 
nothing  could  ever  displace  it. 

While  they  were  all  sitting  round  the  fire,  and  just  as 
the  clock,  striking  ten,  told  them  to  retire  to  rest,  the 
door  opened,  and  in  came  Mary  Morrison.  "  Pity  me  !  " 
cried  Aunt  Isobel  ;  "  what  brings  you  here  sae  late  at 
night;  tell  us  —  are  you  all  well  at  Ewebank  ?  "  Mary 
sat  down  on  the  seat  that  Lucy's  ready  hand  had  placed 
for  her,  and  said,  calmly  —  "  My  dear  father  is  dead  !  — 
perhaps  I  should  not  have  left  him  ;  but  there  was  nobody 
in  the  house  with  me;  and,  when  it  became  quite  dark 
—  for  the  fire  had  gone  out  —  I  was  not  able  to  abide 
the  dreadful  stillness,  and  have  come  here."  The  key 
of  the  hut  was  yet  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  carried  in 
it,  unconsciously,  all  the  way  from  Ewebank. 

Abraham  Morrison's  death  had  been  sudden;  but  every 
circumstance  attending  his   latter  days  had  been  such  as 


220  THE    FORESTERS, 

now  to  comfort  liis  daughter.  The  reconcilement  had 
heen  perfect;  and  the  last  year  of  the  old  man's  life, 
blameless  and  Christian-like,  had  prepared  him  for  this 
change.  Mary  had  been  already  acquainted  with  grief, 
and  now  sat  in  her  cloak,  beneath  which  she  still  wore 
her  widow's  weeds,  unagitated  by  any  strong  emotion, 
like  one  having  come  from  a  neighbor's  house  on  some 
grave  but  not  grievous  errand.  She  had  come,  too,  at  a 
time  when  all  her  friends  were,  from  the  melancholy  duty 
in  which  they  had  been  engaged  during  the  day,  in  a  state 
of  mind  altogether  congenial  with  her  own  ;  and  in  ano- 
ther hour  Mary  was  lying,  as  she  had  often  done  before, 
in  Lucy's  bosom. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

What  strong  support  does  the  consciousness  of  a  good 
reputation  yield  to  all  men  in  the  discharge  of  their  most 
arduous  duties,  and  how  benignly  does  a  regard  to  the 
opinions  of  those  among  whom  we  live  blend  almost  into 
one  motive  with  that  which  we  observe  towards  the  in- 
junctions of  our  Maker  !  Michael  Forester  knew  that 
he  was  esteemed  —  beloved  by  every  family  in  Holylee  ; 
and,  although  he  had  in  no  one  single  instance  ever  tried 
lo  become  the  object  of  such  sentiments,  by  any  unworthy 
submission  or  compromise,  yet  he  rejoiced  to  know  their 
existence,  and  felt  them  to  be,  in  part,  both  the  impulse 
and  reward  of  virtue.  Above  all,  his  character  as  a 
peace-maker  was  especially  dear  to  his  heart  and  con- 
science; and  nothing  cheered  his  blindness  more  than 
the  humble  trust,  that,  in  administering  comfort  to  human 
misery,  which  it  had  not  unfrequently  fallen  to  his  lot  to 
do,  he  had  been  obeying  the  precept  of  Him  whose  prime 
commandment  was  —  that  we  should  love  one  another. 
Michael  had  often  thought  that,  had  he  still  possessed  his 
eyesight,  he  might  have  been  more  selfish,  more  exclu- 


THE    FORESTERS.  221 

sively  devoted  to  the  temporal  interest  of  his  own  family, 
and  more  lukewarm  in  the  interest  of  his  Heavenly  Mas- 
ter. He  attributed  no  merit  to  himself  in  any  kind  action 
which  he  had  been  enabled  to  perform  ;  but  his  conscience 
rewarded  him  by  the  most  delightful  of  all  feelings  — 
gratitude  to  God. 

There  were  now  two  orphans  living  under  His  roof  — 
his  own  brother  Abel's  Martha,  and  Mary  Morrison. 
Never  were  any  two  creatures  more  different ;  yet  they 
were  equally  grateful,  and,  in  a  month  or  two  after  Abra- 
ham Morrison's  death,  it  might  almost  have  been  said 
equally  happy.  Martha  had  never  known  much  deep 
heart-grief,  but  then  she  had  endured  toil,  trouble,  hard- 
ship, and  neglect,  during  the  worst  years  of  her  life;  and 
during  the  best,  her  happiness  had  sprung  up  of  itself, 
whatever  it  might  have  been,  against  not  a  tew  depressing 
circumstances,  of  which  the  misery  had  been  felt,  although 
overcome.  Since  she  came  to  Bracken  Braes,  no  one 
could  be  more  content  and  cheerful,  shewing  her  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  not  by  any  starts  of  delight  or  sallies  of  glee, 
but  by  a  perpetuil  vivacity  that  kept  her  stirring  from 
mornmg  to  night  in  solitary  occupations,  which,  whether 
easy  or  laborious,  seemed  alike  sources  of  the  liveliest 
satisfaction.  Martha  was  now  quite  a  Scotch  girl  —  an 
epithet  which  she  had  borne  in  Ellesmere,  without  any 
very  good  title  to  what  was  so  respectable  ;  yet  still  some- 
thing of  the  Westmoreland  dialect  blended  with  the  Doric 
of  the  Selkirk  braes,  and,  at  times,  recalled  pleasant  re- 
membrances of  the  distant  Vicarage.  The  first  time  that 
Michael  stood  beside  his  brother  Abel's  grave,  with  Mar- 
tha by  his  side,  who  read  the  letters  on  the  stone  rather 
with  a  grave  curiosity  than  any  mournful  emotion  —  for 
what  more  could  they  well  be  to  her  but  mere  chiselled 
characters  —  his  heart  travelled  back  to  the  garden  at 
Dovenest,  and  into  another  world  of  pleasant  years,  that 
seemed  almost  as  much  apart  from  that  in  which  he  now 
lived,  as  two  separate  states  of  existence  !  He  thought 
too  of  his  father's  love  for  Abel,  and  his  conscience  told 
him  that  he  had  not  forgotten  the  old  man's  dying  words. 
19* 


122 


THE    FORESTERS. 


Such  remeiribrances  might  not  now,  after  so  many  years, 
be  very  frequent;  but  they  Jiever  recurred  without  re- 
freshing his  whole  moral  being',  and  deepening  his  con- 
tentment, his  gratitude,  and   his  f;uth. 

Towards  Mary  Morrison,  the  feelings  of  the  whole 
family,  if  not  of  a  more  affectionate,  were  of  a  deeper 
kind.  But  for  them  she  might  have  been  wholly  lost ; 
and  the  gradual  revival  of  her  disconsolate,  and  once 
almost  broken  heart,  was  a  daily  delight  to  them  all ;  but 
far  beyond  others,  to  Lucy.  There  was  nothing  approach- 
ing to  jealousy  in  Martha's  mind  towards  Mary;  on  the 
contrary,  that  warm-hearted  girl  always  behaved  to  her 
with  a  thoughtful  tenderness,  which  made  Lucy  love  her 
cousin  more  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  and  anxious 
to  shew  her,  at  all  times,  that  there  was  no  preference  of 
Mary  Morrison  in  anything  that  could  wound  either  pride 
or  affection.  Martha  was  certainly  iuferior  to  them  both 
in  fineness,  and  tenderness,  and  depth  of  character  ;  but 
still  they  had  no  feelings  in  which  she  could  not,  in  her 
owrt  way  and  measure,  sympathize ;  and  she  sometimes 
won  upon  their  very  closest  affection,  by  unexpected  and 
casual  glimpses  of  sensibilities  that  her  ordinary  deport- 
ment did  not  display,  but  which  yet  slumbered  in  her 
nature,  and  were  fated,  at  no  very  distant  time,  to  be 
called  into  play  in  the  more  difficult  duties  of  mature 
life. 

As  for  the  Maynes,  it  is  wonderful  how  happy  they  all 
were  at  Ladyside.  Jacob's  eldest  daughter  had  been 
requested  in  marriage  by  one  of  the  most  respectable 
young  men  in  the  whole  parish,  the  only  son  of  a  con- 
siderable heritor;  and  this  event,  independent  of  its  natu- 
ral interest  to  a  father's  heart,  relieved  his  too  anxious 
and  foreboding  mind  from  all  the  worst  fears  about  his 
family  in  case  of  his  own  death. 

Isaac  had  cost  his  father  much  money — such  now 
were  Jacob's  own  words  when  speaking  of  his  dead  son, 
to  his  very  intimate  friends,  and  without  the  remotest 
meaning  of  censure — so  that  it  was  generally  supposed 
that  there  was  a  heavy  mortgage  on  the  property  formerly 
belonging    to    Richard    Mayne.       Such    thoughts,    very 


THE    FORESTERS.  223 

natural,  and  not  at  all  reprehensible,  came  to  Jacob's 
mind,  along  with  the  influence  of  time,  and  the  operation 
of  many  other  better  reflections,  till,  by  midsummer,  a 
stranger  going  in  to  Ladyside,  mjght  have  remained  there 
a  whole  day  without  seeing  or  hearing  anything  to  make 
him  suspect  that,  a  few  months  ago,  death  had  taken  away 
him  who  had  been  the  pride  of  the  whole  house. 

It  was  again  midsummer,  and  no  less  than  two  whole 
years  had  revolved  since  Lucy  had  set  out  at  midnight, 
under  the  guidance  of  Edward  Ellis,  for  Ellesraere. 
These  two  years  had  brought  hor  to  woman's  estate; 
and  now,  in  her  seventeenth  June,  perhaps  her  friends  at 
the  Vicarage,  were  they  to  see  her  now,  would  scarcely 
know  her  to  be  the  same  maiden  that  came  so  suddenly 
upon  them,  on  thit  day  of  rain  and  thunder,  weeping 
and  sobbing  on  account  of  her  dying  mother.  These 
friends  had  not  forgotten  her,  and  the  hour  had  come 
when  Ruth  Colinson  and  her  brother  Miles  were  indeed 
at  Bracken  Braes. 

Beautifully  prepared  for  their  arrival  was  the  avenue, 
the  green,  the  garden,  and  the  cottage.  Agnes  and  Lucy 
remembered  the  exquisite  neatness  of  everything  in  and 
about  the  English  Vicarage,  and  almost  despaired  of 
equalling  what  seemed  to  be  peculiar  to  the  character  of 
that  country.  There  was  a  richness,  too,  of  verdure  and 
bloom  at  Ellesmere,  with  which  nothing  in  their  own 
poor  pastoral  part  of  Scotland  could  pretend  to  vie;  and 
coming  from  all  those  woods  and  groves,  sounding  with 
their  open  or  hidden  waterfalls,  what  could  the  Colin- 
sons  think  of  their  lone  valley,  and  the  Heriot  Water 
wimpling  along  the  open  pastures  ?  But  these  thoughts 
had  been  only  half  sincere;  and  as  the  sun  rose  on  one 
of  the  fairest  mornings  that  the  summer  had  brought, 
Lucy  eyed  the  place  with  pride,  and  was  glad  that  their 
friends  from  England  were  to  arrive  at  Bracken  Braes 
during  such  heavenly  weather.  In  the  cool  of  the  even- 
ing before,  all  the  shrubberies  had  been  watered;  a  slight 
sprinkling  of  bright  blue  gravel,  from  the  burn,  had  given 
H  spirit  of  liveliness  to  the  avenue  and  all  the  plants 
through  which  it  winded  along  ;   and  it  seemed  as  if  every 


224  THE    FORESTERS. 

bee  in  the  parish  were  in  the  plane  tree,  so  loud,  and  yet 
so  lulling  was  the  sound  in  that  umbrageous  tent. 

Ruth  and  her  brother  had  been  true  to  the  very  hour  ; 
and  never  had  there  been  a  happier  meeting  than  now 
befell  in  front  of  that  cottage.  Martha  was  no  insigni- 
ficant personage  on  this  occasion  ;  and,  for  a  short  time, 
Lucy  left  all  the  questions  to  her,  preserving  all  her  own 
kindest  whisperings  to  Ruth,  for  the  shadows  of  the  even- 

This  visit  awoke  in  the  hearts  of  Michael  and  Agnes 
the  most  distressing,  and  the  most  delightful  remem- 
brances belonging  to  their  whole  life;  and,  while  Lucy 
accompanied  Ruth  and  Miles  all  about  the  braes,  and, 
not  unfrequently,  to  the  Hirst  —  the  only  old  place  worth 
seeing  to  strangers  —  they  remained  at  home  conversing 
about  the  Vicarage,  and  the  mercy  shewn  to  them  by 
their  Maker  in  that  crisis.  But,  after  the  first  week,  Mi- 
chael also  took  his  staff",  and  made  one  of  the  party  on 
many  of  their  excursions;  and,  on  all  such  walks,  Lucy 
more  and  more  regarded  Miles  Colinson  with  esteem  and 
affection,  for  then  he  shewed  himself  forth  in  converse 
with  her  father;  and  his  were  talents  strong  by  nature, 
and  nobly  endowed  by  sciences  in  which  tiiere  is  no  de- 
ce[)tion,  and  that  give  a  simple  and  unostentatious  char- 
acter to  the  whole  mind  of  him  by  whom  they  are  suc- 
cessfully pursued.  How  superior  seemed  to  Lucy  the 
calm  settled  knowledge  of  such  a  mind  as  that  of  Miles 
Colinson,  to  the  wild  and  disturbed  eccentricities  which, 
with  all  his  feeling  and  genius,  had  fatally  characterized 
that  of  Isaac  Mayne !  This  knowledge  was  clearly  in 
alliance  with  virtue.  Here,  heart  and  mind  were  almost 
different  .words  for  the  same  thing;  and  Lucy,  when 
Miles  was  speaking  to  her  father  on  such  subjects  as  she 
could  understand,  did  not  so  much  think  about  his  abili- 
ties as  his  dispositions;  for  a  certain  considerate  sweet- 
ness of  sentiment  embued  all  he  said  with  the  common 
spirit  of  humanity.  Yet  was  Miles  Colinson  fit  to  be 
coinpared,  in  her  imagination,  with  Edward  Ellis,  the 
graceful,  and  elegant,  and  beautiful  boy,  that  had  once 
laid  himself  down,  and  watched  over  her,  while  she  slept 


THE    FORESTERS.  '  225 

by  tliat  mossy  well  in  the  desert,  with  no  other  living 
thing  near  them  but  the  moorland  birds,  and  the  bees 
murmuring  through  her  dreams  among  the  flowers  and 
heatiier-bells  of"  the  solitary  mountains?  But  that  was  a 
childish  vision,  and  never  again  could  it  find  an  abiding 
place  within  a  bosom  not  yet  indeed  depressed,  but  still 
somewhat  hushed  by  the  almost  unconscious  influence  of 
the  shadows  of  time  stealing  upon  her  altered  being  ! 
The  past,  while  it  rose  up  before  her,  now  always  pos- 
sessed the  character  of  a  dream,  and,  like  a  dream,  stood 
apart  by  itself  from  the  realities  of  the  living  world.  Such 
dreams  visit  every  human  heart  —  sometimes,  perhaps, 
sickening  it  by  the  contrast,  yet  oflener  inspiring  grati- 
tude;  for,  in  all  their  beauty,  what  are  they  but  the  gol- 
den mist  that  shrouds  all  objects  in  undistinguishable  de- 
light, and  veils  from  youthful  eyes  the  real  shapes  and 
lineaments  of  nature. 

Besides,  Lucy's  whole  mind  was  now  woman  grown; 
and  all  the  relations  of  life  had  been,  oftener  than  she 
knew,  meditated  upon  by  her  with  their  delights  and  du- 
ties. The  conversations  that  took  place  every  evening 
by  the  fireside,  when  all  were  sitting  together,  were  often 
of  a  light,  but  never  of  a  trifling  nature.  Pure  were  all 
Lucy's  thoughts  as  the  well  in  which  she  dipped  her 
pitcher,  but  they  were  familiar  with  all  sacred  household 
words  ;  and,  as  she  beheld  herself  in  her  mirror  which, 
close  to  the  window  of  her  bedroom,  reflected,  not  only 
her  face  and  figure,  but  all  the  flowering  richness  of  the 
avenue,  and  the  beauty  of  the  broomy  braes,  she  would 
sometimes  slowly  retire,  and  then  as  slowly  return  in  her 
rejoicing  beauty,  like  a  bride  on  her  wedding  morn  ;  and, 
it  may  be,  wondering,  in  a  transient  thought,  if  it  were 
impossible  that  she  could  be  now  beloved  by  Miles  Col- 
inson,  as  she  had  once  been  by  one  far  away  over  the 
roaring  seas ! 

Poor  Mary  Morrison,  the  blossoms  of  whose  early  af- 
fections had  been  so  soon  dismally  blighted,  thought  now 
of  nothing  else  than  Lucy  and  Mr.  Colinson.  Could  she 
see  Lucy  married  to  such  a  man,  then  would  all  her  own 
cares  be  forgotten.   The  sight  of  such  pure,  calm,  thought- 


226  THE    FORESTERS. 

ful,  and  profound  affection  as  was  dawning  upon  her  eyes 
sometimes  almost  made  her  weep;  for  although  her  con- 
science had  not  much  to  reproach  her  with  in  her  un- 
happy love  for  Mark  Thornhill,  how  different  had  been 
his  wooing  fi-om  this  !  How  uncertain  and  how  troubled, 
—  how  cruel  in  its  close  —  and  then  what  distraction  on 
that  bed  of  death !  Their's  were  the  first  gentle  begin- 
nings of  mutual  faith  —  of  love  almost  before  the  hearts 
in  which  they  were  arising,  knew  with  what  kind  of  de- 
light it  was  that  they  were  so  sweetly  stirred.  There 
were  truth,  simplicity,  honor,  and  religion,  all  united  in 
one  holy  purpose,  and  yet  that  purpose  scarcely  known 
to  those  bosoms  of  which,  nevertheless,  it  shaped  and 
colored  all  the  very  lightest  and  the  very  gravest  thoughts. 
"  In  former  days,  sometimes  when  sitting  by  ourselves  on 
the  sunny  braes,  I  have  said  to  Lucy  that  I  would  be  her 
bridesmaid  —  some  far  happier  creature  than  me  must 
now  stand  in  that  place  ;  but  perhaps  I  may  be  allowed 
to  go  with  Lucy  Colinson  to  Ellesmere;  and  methinks 
these  hands  o'  mine  could  better  than  ony  ither,  but  her 
ain,  put  up  her  bonny  nair,  and  adorn  her  like  a  lily  on 
her  wedding  day.  No  black  must  be  worn  on  that  holy 
morning  of  sadness  and  joy  ;  and  I  will  lay  aside  my 
weeds  for  one  day,  returning  to  them  again  by  the  next 
sun,  for  they  are  tokens  of  my  affection  for  him  who  is 
gone,  and  also  of  my  sin  and  repentance." 

But  what  did  Miles  Colinson  think  of  Lucy  Forester? 
He  could  not  forget  the  hour  when  first  he  saw  Ruth 
wringing  out  the  rain  from  her  ringlets,  as  she  stood 
among  them  in  the  Vicarage,  beseeching  them  to  say  if 
her  mother  was  indeed  alive.  But  now  those  ringlets, 
although  they  had  lost  something  of  that  sunny  glow 
which  the  tempest  could  not  tame  with  all  its  deluge, 
were  far  more  lovely  than  ever,  in  the  subdued  and  tender 
light  that  shone  over  her  thoughtful  forehead.  Then  she 
had  been  accustomed  to  gaze  on  everything  she  beheld, 
with  the  almost  instinctive  delight  of  childhood  ;  but  now 
Lucy  understood  more  of  the  meanings  on  the  face  of 
nature,  and  looked  over  the  heaven  and  the  earth  with  a 
spirit  of  piety  that  felt  God  to   be  there,  even  while  all 


THE    FORESTERS.  327 

her  thoughts  were  about  her  fellow-creatures  and  their 
habitations.  Even  when  Lucy  spoke  of  that  festival  on 
Windermere,  which,  at  the  time,  had  seemed  to  be  more 
like  a  glorious  train  of  sights  passing  in  the  trance  of  a 
fairy  dream,  than  a  scene  transacting  on  the  bosom  and 
the  banks  of  a  real  lake,  it  was  with  a  calm  and  almost 
melancholy  voice  ;  for  was  she  ever  again  to  behold  those 
clouds,  and  woods,  and  waterfiills,  shadowed  far  down 
within  the  depths  of  that  mirror,  over  whose  surface  not 
an  air  breathed  to  veil  with  dim  suffusion  the  reflected 
scenery  of  earth  and  heaven?  "Am  I  ever  again  to  be 
at  Ellesmere,"  thought  Lucy  ;  and  the  same  thought, 
more  eager,  ardent,  impassioned,  and  overwhelming,  was 
in  the  heart  of  him  to  whom  Lucy  was  every  hour  becom- 
ing dearer  and  more  dear  till  even  the  very  sense  of  her 
surpassing  beauty  was  lost  in  a  love  that  lived  upon  her 
whole  delightful  character,  and  could  never  die  while  life 
lasted,  even  if  that  beauty  were  to  be  utterly  extinguished  ; 
for  still  the  maiden  at  his  side  would  be  Lucy  Forester, 
and  none  but  she  was  ever  to  be  cherished  in  his  heart, 
whether  it  had  been  already  doomed  that  she  was  thence- 
forth to  be  to  him  but  a  shadow,  or  a  steady  light  that 
might  shine  on  him  forever  ! 

It  was  not  possible  that  Miles  Colinson's  growing  at- 
tachment to  Lucy  could  escape  the  notice  of  any  one  of 
those  most  interested  in  her  welfare;  and  Michael  and 
Agnes,  happy  as  they  would  both  be  beyond  their  imagina- 
tion of  happiness  were  their  daughter  to  become  the  wife 
of  such  a  man,  almost  wished  that  he  were  gone  from 
Bracken  Braes.  They  did  not  know  whether  such  a 
connection  —  and  yet,  perhaps,  the  very  forethought  was 
altogether  but  an  idle  dream  —  might  be  agreeable  to  the 
worthy  vicar.  The  visit  had  merely  been  one  of  a  friendly 
return  ;  and  such  consequences  as  now  seemed  far  from 
improbable,  could  never  have  entered  into  the  minds  of 
Mr.  Colinson's  parents  when  he  and  Ruth  left  Ellesmere. 
There  almost  seemed,  to  the  high  and  independent  mind 
of  Michael  Forester,  something  clandestine,  or  at  least 
not  perfectly  open,  in  thus  allowing  the  affection  of  the 
guest  below  his  roof  to  grow  into  a  deeply  rooted  attach- 


228  THE    FORESTERS. 

ment  for  his  own  daughter,  without  being  perfectly  certain 
that  such  an  attachment  would  be  approved  by  those  who 
were  not  indeed  privileged  to  dispose  of  their  son's  feelings, 
but  certainly  to  guide  them,  and  to  be  consulted  in  their 
final  decision.  Agnes  felt  the  same  difficulty  and  delicacy 
in  this  situation  ;  but  Aunt  Isobel  considered  the  subject 
in  a  very  different  light.  "  What  's  the  use,  children,  o' 
making  yourselves  unhappy  about  what  is  one  day  to  be 
the  greatest  blessing  that  ever  shone  upon  us  frae  heaven, 
either  at  Dovenest  or  Bracken  Braes  ?  My  troth,  there 
is  nae  occasion  to  pity  the  folk  at  the  Vicarage.  A  grand 
vicar  apostolic  o'  the  Episcopalian  Church,  the  young 
man's  father  maun  indeed  be,  if  Lucy  Forester  be  not 
worthy  of  marrying  into  his  family  !  For  my  ain  part,  I 
like  the  lad,  God  forgie  me,  very  near  as  well  as  Mr.  Ellis 
himself — and  he  was  a  boy  o'  many  thousand;  but  will 
anybody  tell  me  that  he  deserves  our  Lucy?  And  yet 
he  loves  her  well  —  that  I  can  see,  dim  and  auld  as  are 
my  een  noo  —  and  will  love  her  better  and  better  as  lang 
as  he  lives;  for  he  has  a  strong  thoughtfu'  heart,  that 
young  Mr.  Colinson,  and  gin  I  am  no  sair  raistaen,  a 
clear  conscience  ;  and  when  such  a  one  loveth  a  maiden, 
it  is  not  for  her  face,  or  her  een,  or  her  breast,  although 
that  maiden  be  our  bonny  Lucy  hersel',  but  for  something 
that  endureth  and  fadeth  not  away,  the  soul  within  us 
beins  immortal." 


CHAPTER     XXXIX. 

Thirty  long  days,  certainly  in  general  the  finest  of 
all  the  year  in  Scotland,  from  the  middle  of  June  to  the 
middle  of  July,  had  floated  away  down  the  sky  since  Ruth 
and  Miles  Colinson  had  first  found  themselves  domestica- 
ted at  Bracken  Braes.  Scarcely  during  all  that  time  had 
there  been  a  dim  forenoon,  or  any  other  than  golden  sun- 
sets.    Such   weather   may   be  objected  to  on  account  of 


THE    FORESTERS,  229 

sameness,  and  deficiency  in  picturesque  and  poetical 
effects;  but  it  gives  iunple  scope  of  time  to  hill-wander- 
ers, and  their  walks  of  discovery  between  morn  and  eve, 
unimpeded  by  swollen  rivulet  or  dripping  fern,  can  em- 
brace vale  after  vale  —  glen  after  glen  —  secret  chasm 
known  but  to  natives —  wide  moors  not  without  a  spirit 
of  lonesome  beauty  —  lochs  miles  asunder  —  and  the  cat- 
aract far  up  among  the  mountains  —  the  boundary,  in- 
deed, of  the  journey,  and  beneath  whose  overshadowing 
birches,  within  reach  of  the  dewy  spray,  the  pilgrims  may 
find  shelter  from  the  mid-day  heat,  and  spread  their  table 
in  the  peaceful  wilderness. 

But  the  last  evening  tlioy  were  to  pass  at  Bracken 
Braes,  was  now  about  to  descend;  and,  although  there 
was  no  reason  for  melancholy,  a  pleasant  pensiveness 
seemed  deepening  below  the  shadow  of  the  plane  tree. 
Ruth  and  Myles  had  taken  farewell  of  the  iew  families  in 
whose  houses  they  had  familiary  sat,  especially  those  at 
Raeshaw,  Ladyside,  and  the  Manse  ;  so  there  was  nothing 
more  to  do  in  the  view  of  their  departure.  Lucy,  Ruth, 
Mary  Morrison,  and  Martha,  walked  down  the  Heriot 
Water  in  that  uncertain  and  unconcerned  state  of  mind 
as  to  their  movements,  that  every  one  feels  when  affected 
by  mingled  pleasure  and  pain.  Miles  Colinson  was  glad 
to  see  the  group  tripping  across  the  bridge  of  the  Whin- 
holms  ;  for  he  was  desirous  of  being  alone  for  an  hour 
with  Michael  and  Agnes,  nor  did  he  care  if  Aunt  Isobel 
were  also  to  hear  his  confessions. 

There  was  but  little  chance  of  any  visitor  coming  to 
Bracken  Braes  at  that  hour  of  the  evening;  but  Miles 
Colinson  thought  neither  the  parlor  nor  the  plane  suffi- 
ciently safe  from  interruption,  so  he  requested  his  friends 
to  walk  with  him  a  little  way  up  the  hill  behind  the  house, 
in  among  the  hazles,  hollies,  and  yews,  where  there  were 
several  little  glades,  as  perfectly  retired,  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  porch,  as  if  they  had  been  in  the  heart  of  a 
forest.  In  one  of  these  they  took  their  seats  on  the  limb 
of  an  old  disinterred  tree  ;  and,  while  one  and  all  suspect-? 
ed  what  might  be  the  nature  of  the  communication,  yet 
20 


230  THE    FORESTERS, 

not  one  of  them  would  have  been  surprised  had  Miles 
Colinson  introduced  quite  another,  subject. 

Miles  at  once  declared,  with  earnestness  but  composure 
—  for  he  felt  too  profoundl}'  to  be  visibly  agitated —  that 
he  loved  Lucy,  and  hoped  that,  if  he  were  so  happy  as  to 
gain  her  affections,  her  parents  would  give  their  consent 
to  the  marriage.  He  acknowledged  that  as  yet  he  had 
no  reason  to  believe  that  her  regard  for  him  was  at  all  of 
the  nature  of  love,  and  that,  indeed,  the  idea  of  her  ex- 
treme youth  had  often  so  influenced  his  behaviour  towards 
her,  that  he  was  aware  she  could  now  only  think  of  him 
as  an  elder  brother.  He  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  Lucy's 
simplicity  and  innocence,  to  the  parental  kindness  with 
which  he  had  been  received  at  Bracken  Braes,  and  to 
the  character  and  condition  of  Mr.  Forester  —  for  now, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  alluded  to  Michael's  blind- 
ness—  to  the  remembrance  of  all  that  happened  when 
they  were  at  the  Vicarage,  and  to  his  own  father  and 
mother,  to  confess  in  this  manner  the  state  of  his  affec- 
tions, before  he  even  endeavored  to  win  Lucy's  heart.  "  I 
dare  not  now  speak  to  your  daughter  of  love  or  marriage, 
Mr.  Forester  ;  for  were  Lucy  to  hear  me  with  averted 
eyes,  methinksl  could  not  bear  to  live  ;  but  all  I  beseech 
of  you  is  leave  to  hope,  that  if,  in  future  months  or  years 
Lucy  should  give  me  her  affections,  you  will  not  dislike 
me  for  a  son-in-law." 

Both  Michael  and  Agnes,  when  Miles  Colinson  had 
ceased  speaking,  thought  of  themselves,  and  that  sweet 
spring  Sabbath,  more  than  seventeen  years  ago,  when,  in 
the  gardens  of  Dovenest,  they  found  that  a  few  words  had 
betrothed  them,  and  that  anew  light,  fairer  than  ever  they 
had  beheld  before,  was  stealing  over  the  woods  of  Dryden. 
Agnes  was  now  sitting  by  Michael's  side,  and  laid  her 
hand  in  sudden  happiness  upon  his,  which  was  not  slow 
to  return  its  pressure.  "  If  I  live,"  said  Michael,  "  to  see 
the  day  on  which  you  will  call  Lucy  your  wife,  this  world 
will  be  almost  too  happy  for  her  blind  father!"  The 
fine  and  delicate  spirit  of  Agnes  had  felt  unspeakable  de- 
light in  the  reverence  with  which  Mr.  .Colinson  had  be- 
haved to  her  husband,  and  the  exquisite  tenderness  he 


THE    FORESTEIIS.  231 

had  shewn  towards  Lucy's  youth  and  innocence.  This 
was  indeed  love  —  love  such  as  she  had  herself  enjoyed 
for  so  many  years  —  uninterrupted  —  unimpaired  —  in- 
destructible in  its  sanctity  and  in  the  preserving  spirit  of 
human  joy,  that,  but  for  love  would  fall  —  die —  and  be 
buried  like  the  flowers  of  the  senseless  earth. 

Isobel  alone  stood  up,  and,  her  eyes  shining  with  a 
lustre  like  that  of  youth,  looked  towards  the  setting  sun. 
"  I  see  long  years  of  happiness  preparing  for  them  by  that 
hand,  which  is  over  all  His  works.  Yes,  I  have  seen  my 
Agnes  the  happiest  of  the  happy  —  as  she  is,  and  ever 
was,  the  best  of  the  good  ;  and  now,  lo  !  her  Maker  hath 
also  blessed  my  Lucy,  and  her  life  and  her  latter  end 
shall  be  peace." 

But  now,  voices  were  heard  below,  and  Lucy's  was 
among  them  ;  and,  from  the  deadened  sound,  it  was  plain 
the  party  had  sat  down  beneath  the  plane  tree.  Although 
but  few  words  had  been  uttered  by  those  assembled  ui 
that  glade,  yet  a  weight  of  solemn  and  sacred  meaning 
had  lain  upon  their  language.  Miles  Colinson,  without 
any  pain,  was  willing  to  obey  the  injunctions  of  Lucy's 
parents,  not  to  address  her  till  the  following  summer, 
having  been  assured  by  them  that  there  was  no  danger  of 
her  heart  yielding  to  any  other  attachment.  From  their 
affectionate  prayers  for  his  welfare,  he  felt  that,  in  his  ab- 
sence, they  would  not  only  prevent  his  image  from  fading 
altogether  away  from  Lucy's  heart,  but  would  hold  it  al- 
ways before  her  in  the  most  favorable  and  endearing  light. 
In  that  hopeful  state  of  mind,  he  began  to  dwell  upon 
little  circumstances  that  had  occurred  between  him  and 
Lucy,  that  seemed  now,  although  ihey  were  too  indefi- 
nite even  to  be  named,  to  be  not  wholly  insignificant; 
and,  indeed,  had  he  not  been,  although  aware  of  his  own 
moral  worth  and  intellectual  acquirements,  a  more  than 
usually  modest  person  respecting  any  power  over  the  fe- 
male heart —  a  power  which  he  had  never  before  thought 
of  very  seriously  exerting — he  might  have  believed, 
without  any  very  great  mistake,  that  Lucy's  eyes  regard- 
ed him  with  a  pleasure  that,  although  not  what  could  be 
called  love,  was  something,  at  her  tender  age,  far  belter 


232  THE    FORESTERS. 

—  from  which  would,  in  due  time,  be  made  to  spring 
"that  consummate  flower,"  which  can  only  unfold  toper* 
feet  beauty  in  the  light  of  matured  reason. 

Certainly  that  evening,  although  the  last,  was  the  hap- 
piest that  Miles  Colinson  had  passed  at  Bracken  Braes. 
Lucy,  altogether  unconscious  of  being  not  only  the  object 
of  all  his  love,  but,  as  it  might  be  said,  affianced  to  him 
by  parents  who  feared  not  but  that  her  affections  would 
soOR  glide  into  his  bosom,  sat  with  her  arm  round  Ruth's 
neck,  and  gave  her,  over  and  over  again,  the  kindest 
messages  to  her  father  and  mother,  independently  of  a 
long  letter,  which  she  had  written  something  in  the  form 
of  a  journal.  Miles  had  made  many  pencil  sketches  of 
the  scenery  of  Holylee,  which  Lucy  had  never  before 
thought  so  beautiful  in  reality,  much  as  she  loved  it  all, 
and  he  asked  her  to  keep  them  for  his  sake.  Lucy  pro- 
mised to  do  so  without  a  blush,  but  with  the  most  benign 
eyes;  and,  with  Miles  leaning  over  her,  arranged,  accor- 
ding to  her  own  liking,  the  small  green  nooks  with  a  few 
sheep,  or  two  or  three  cattle  feeding,  or  standing  below  a 
rock  —  a  little  broomy  oasis  in  the  blackness  of  a  Scot- 
tish moor  —  a  waterfall  —  ay,  even  the  linn  of  the  How- 
let's  Nest  closed  in  by  gentle  braes,  in  its  sylvan  loneli- 
ness, from  all  but  the  silent  sky  —  a  glade  in  the  Hirst 
woods,  selected  by  Lucy  herself,  because  one  of  the  fa- 
vorite haunts  of  Emma  Cranstoun.  These,  and  many 
more,  she  promised,  as  she  was  asked,  to  keep  for  his 
sake ;  nor  did  she  conceal  her  joy  at  the  thought  of  visit- 
ing Ellesmere,  which  Michael  said  was  not  impossible 
next  summer,  unless,  indeed,  the  vicar  and  Mrs.  Colinson 
would  come  to  them  at  Bracken  Braes.  "  The  Lady  of 
the  Hirst,"  said  Lucy,  "  will  be  coining  home  next  sum- 
mer ;  for,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  her  health  is  now  per- 
fectly restored  by  the  air  of  those  sweet  foreign  lands  — 
and  I  must  not  be  away  when  she  returns."  But  Miles 
Colinson,  from  her  affectionate  looks  when  she  was  thus 
thinking  of  Ellesmere,  drew  the  most  delightful  hopes, 
and  said,  with  a  smile,  "  that,  for  the  future,  they  would 
all  trust  in  Providence."  Lucy  had  shewn  some  of  Em- 
ma Cranstoun's  letters,  first  to  Ruth  and  then  to  her  bro- 


THE    FORESTERS.  233 

ther,  for  they  contained  no  secrets  that  might  not  be 
heard  by  any  friend  slie  had  ;  and  Miles  Colinson  could 
not  but  be  still  prouder  of  his  Lucy  —  for  to  himself  he 
had  sometimes  dared  to  call  her  so,  when  the  sunshine 
danced  into  his  heart  —  on  thinking  how  highly  that  ac- 
complished lady  estimated  her  character,  and  how  ten- 
derly she  admitted  her  into  her  friendship. 

Early  next  morning  a  parting  took  place,  without  a 
tear,  beneath  the  plane  tree;  and,  as  long  as  Ruth  and 
her  brother  were  visible,  many  a  farewell  was  wafted  to 
them  down  the  vale,  by  hand  and  kerchief — many  a 
prayer  sent  after  them,  when  they  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

The  harvest  in  the  parish  of  Holylee  was  this  season 
a  late  one,  and  there  had  been  much  cold  and  inclement 
weather  during  the  ripening  month,  so  that  well  on  in 
October,  the  crops,  especially  on  the  uplands,  were  still 
green,  and  promised  badly  for  the  thrashing  floor.  Since 
the  time  Michael  Forester  came  to  Bracken  Braes,  there 
had  been  much  more  land  brought  into  tillage,  along  the 
course  of  the  Heriot  Water;  and,  except  now  and  then, 
in  a  late  and  unfavorable  season  like  this,  the  new  agri- 
culture had  been  far  from  unproductive.  It  so  happened 
that  there  were  a  greater  number  of  acres  under  the 
plough  this  year  than  any  previous  one,  and  there  was 
even  a  want  of  hands  for  the  harvest.  What  happens  in 
one  hill  parish,  generally  happens  in  a  great  measure  in 
another,  and  bands  of  shearers  were  now  traversing  the 
south  of  Scotland,  some  of  them  even  from  the  most  dis- 
tant Highlands. 

A  small  band,  consisting  of  father,  son,  and  daughter, 
had  looked  in  at  Bracken  Braes,  and  were  hired  for  a 
20*  « 


234  THE    FORESTERS. 

fortnight.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  they  uere  to 
go  to  Ladyside ;  and  it  was  probable  they  might  get  a  few 
days  likewise  at  Raeshaw.  They  had  not  been  at  Brack- 
en Braes  half  a  week,  till  Donald  Fraser  had  told  the 
story  of  his  not  uneventful  life. 

Donald  had  been  a  soldier,  and  had  seen  service  on  the 
sands  of  Egypt,  under  Abercromby.  Although  not  the 
Highlander  who  took  the  invincible  standard,  he  would 
not  have  been  slow  in  taking  it  had  it  come  in  his  way  — 
and  a  bayonet  in  his  hand  must  have  been  an  unchancy 
weapon.  Unfortunately,  his  broad  breast  and  brawny 
limbs  had  escaped  without  a  wound,  so  Donald  had  no 
pension.  Foreign  warfare  and  foreign  climate  had  done 
his  constitution  some  wrong,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  except 
by  fits  and  starts,  it  did  not  appear  that  Donald  had  ever 
been  very  fond  of  work.  On  leaving  the  army,  which  he 
had  been  forced  to  do  by  rheumatism,  that  at  one  time 
threatened  to  leave  him  lame  for  life,  he  took  up  his  abode 
in  a  hut  near  the  head  of  the  Dee  —  the  most  mountain- 
ous region  perhaps  in  Scotland.  He  had  left  a  wife  and 
two  children  there  when  he  joined  the  Forty-Second  ; 
and  soon  after  his  return,  his  wife  died,  leaving  him  to 
provide,  as  best  he  could  in  that  solitary  region,  for  Ha- 
mish  and  ['""lora.  Year  after  year  had  passed  awa}^,  and 
there  had  never  been  any  absolute  want  of  food  or  rai- 
ment, such  as  they  were,  in  Donald's  hut.  The  lochs 
were  full  of  trout,  the  river  of  salmon,  the  heather  moun- 
t.aius  of  grouse,  and  the  forest  of  deer,  and  Donald  had 
several  fishing-rods,  and  one  rifle.  Now  that  his  son  and 
daughter  were  arown  up,  they  had  for  several  harvests 
sallied  into  the  Lowlands,  sometimes  walking  and  work- 
ing their  way  by  Montrose  and  Kirkaldy,  and,  on  the  last 
occasion,  coming  direct  from  Aberdeen  to  Edinburgh,  by 
the  Brilliant  steam  yacht. 

Hamish  was  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  of  quiet  man- 
ners, and  inoffensive  disposition,  as  most  Highlanders  are, 
when  not  put  out  of  their  way;  but  bold,  active,  and 
patient  of  hunger,  cold,  and  toil.  Besides  his  father,  who 
was  almost  of  gigantic  mould,  Hamish  seemed  little  more 
than  a  dwarf;   but  he  was,  in  fact,  rather  above  the  mid- 


THE    FORESTERS.  235 

(lie  size,  slim,  straight,  and  muscular  —  every  motion  be- 
tokening the  possession  of  strength  and  agility  not  thrown 
away  on  useless  pastimes,  but  reserved  tor  occasions  of 
real  need.  Tiie  courtesy  for  which  his  poorest  ar»d  most 
uneducated  countrymen  are  so  pleasingly  distinguished, 
marked  his  demeanor  in  a  more  than  ordinary  degree ; 
and,  when  he  threw  aside  his  bonnet,  his  freckled  and 
weather-beaten  countenance,  without  being  remarkable 
for  one  single  feature  —  except,  perhaps,  its  light-blue 
and  sincere  eyes  —  was  extremely  agreeable;  and,  when 
lighted  up  with  a  smile,  even  handsome  below  its  curls 
of  yellow  hair.  There  was  not  a  better  hook  on  the  corn 
rig  than  the   youns  Hicrhiander;  for,  besides  woing  over 

ra  JOS  ■'  no 

much  ground  in  little  lime,  he  left  the  stubble  no  higher 
than  his  ancle.  As  for  food,  he  cared  not  about  it,  nor 
what  it  was,  if  wholesome  —  barley  meal  and  goat's  milk 
had  still  been  the  chief  fare  in  the  hut  by  the  Linn  of 
Dee;  although,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  a  more  potent 
liquor,  when  it  came  in  the  way,  was  in  no  disrepute, 
and  that  the  old  man  especially,  although  he  knew  his 
besetting  sin,  was  not  very  cautious  against  temptation. 

Flora  Fraser  was  one  of  those  perfectly  simple  and 
harmless,  say  at  once  innocent,  creatures,  of  whom  it  is 
thought  we  may  read  in  old  songs  and  ballads  —  the  fic- 
tions of  imaginative  minds  in  lowly  life,  but  nowhere  ex- 
isting, even  iu  the  hut  farthest  remote  from  the  haunts  of 
men.  But  in  those  little  traditionary  strains  of  feeling 
and  of  genius,  the  human  spirit  speaks  of  itself  no  more 
than  the  truth  ;  and  altliough  to  those  who  live  not  among 
the  lonely  dwellers  in  the  wild,  and  know  them  most  im- 
perfectly from  the  mere  appearances  of  their  outward 
condition,  such  pictures  may  seem  false  and  visionary, 
yet  the  colors  are  true  as  those  of  twilight  or  the  sunset 
heavens,  and,  touched,  by  an  unerring  hand,  obeying  the 
genuine  impulses  of  nature.  Flora  had  slept  all  her  life 
on  heather  or  straw,  and  little  or  no  care  had  ever  been 
taken  to  keep  her  mind  from  the  knowledge  of  those 
evils,  and  vices,  and  sins,  that,  like  the  seeds  of  plants, 
seemed  to  be  wafted  by  the  winds  into  the  most  secluded 
and  solitary  places,  and  sometimes  grow  there  with  41  rank 


236  THE    FORESTERS. 

luxuriance,  even  below  the  same  atmosphere  that  cher- 
ishes all  the  best  charities  of  life.  Although  her  father 
protected  his  daughter's  virtue,  and  would  have  killed  the 
man  who  offered  to  corrupt  it,  yet  the  rough  old  soldier 
had,  of  course,  little  delicacy  of  thinking  or  of  speaking, 
and  had  not  only  witnessed,  but  taken  a  part  in  many  a 
scene  of  turbulent  and  reckless  enjoyment  in  those  bloody 
but  triumphant  companies.  But  still,  like  some  beautiful 
small  bird  of  the  mountains,  that  rises  up,  with  unstained 
and  shining  plumage,  from  the  dankest  marsh,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  raining  mists,  young  Flora  Fraser  had  re- 
tained all  the  hues  of  her  native  innocence,  and  returned 
home  from  her  walks  or  occupations  among  the  moun- 
tains, happy  as  that  bird  to  its  nest.  And  now,  cheerful 
in  the  haughs  or  on  the  uplands  of  Holylee,  as  in  the 
glens  that  open  down  to  her  own  river,  she  sung  her  old 
Gaelic  songs  around  Bracken  Braes,  or  sat,  sheltered  in 
her  Tartan  plaid,  when  the  sleet  came  strong,  below  the 
hills  that  wanted  the  heather,  on  which,  from  infancy, 
she  had  watched  her  kw  sheep  and  goats,  at  the  foot  of 
the  great  Highland  mountains. 

Martha,  who,  for  the  last  years  of  her  childhood,  had 
always  been  a  worker  in  the  open  air,  was  not  contented 
to  remain  at  home  in  domestic  occupations,  and  now 
joined  the  shearers.  She  and  Hamish  Fraser  were  to- 
gether on  the  same  corn  rig;  and,  busy  as  they  all  were, 
still  there  was  time  for  talk  even  during  their  work  ;  and 
then,  at  meals  taken  in  the  field  by  the  hedge  side,  on 
some  bank  below  a  tree,  all  was  glee  and  merriment  with 
every  group.  Hamish  and  Martha  were  at  first  fellow- 
shearers,  then  acquaintances,  and  then  friends;  and,  be- 
fore the  fortnight  was  over,  and  all  the  fields  covered  with 
stooks,  or  some  of  them  left  naked  by  the  wains  rapidly 
moving  to  and  fro  from  the  stack-yard,  they  were  more 
to  each  other  than  friends,  even  lovers  in  all  the  warmth 
and  tenderness  of  youthful  affection.  The  Frasers  al- 
ways, after  the  day's  work,  walked  down  to  the  village  to 
their  beds,  in  a  small  apartment  there;  and  it  did  not 
require  much  persuasion  to  induce  Martha  occasionally 
to  aceornpany  them  ;  while  old  Donald  led  the  way  with 


THE    FORESTERS.  237 

his  bagpipe,  thnt  sounded  with  a  wild  outlandish  music 
among  tlie  braes  —  laments  and  marches,  melancholy  or 
exulting,  as  over  chiefs  that  had  fallen,  or  with  kilted  bat- 
talions rushing  to  battle.  Love  was  made  both  in  shade 
and  sunshine,  without  those  young  creatures  knowing  that 
it  was  love;  and,  on  the  evening  before  the  Highland 
party  were  to  move  to  Ladyside,  Martha  promised  to 
marry  Hamish  Fraser,  and  to  go  with  him,  if  he  chose,  to 
the  world's  end. 

Donald  blamed  in  no  measured  terms  his  son's  folly, 
and  tried  to  frighten  the  young  lovers  by  terrific  pictures 
of  the  married  life  ;  but  he  had  himself  done  the  same 
thing  in  his  youth;  and  when  he  saw  that  a  marriage  it 
would  be,  he  gave  Martha  his  blessing.  Flora,  too, 
cheerfully  called  her  sister,  for  Martha  was  too  passion- 
ately attached  to  Hamish  not  to  give  her  affections  freely 
to  one  so  near  akin  to  him.  Lucy  Forester  was  not  held 
the  less  dear;  nor  did  she  become  forgetful  or  ungrateful 
to  her  uncle  and  aunt  ;  yet  still  from  Bracken  Rraes  she 
was  willing  to  go,  and  fearlessly,  and  without  an  hour's 
hesitation,  to  enter  into  the  uncertain  prospects  of  a  new 
life. 

Not  a  little  surprise-was  given  to  them  all,  at  Michael's 
fireside,  by  this  unexpected  event;  but  what  had  happen- 
ed was  not  to  be  changed.  There  was  something  to  re- 
gret, but  not  to  blame;  and,  since  Martha  would  go,  it 
was  now  their  duty  to  be  as  kind  to  her,  on  her  departure, 
as  they  had  been  during  her  stay,  and,  in  as  far  as  lay  in 
their  power,  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  and  respectabil- 
ity of  her  Condition.  Nature,  where  there  is  no  guilt, 
may  as  well  be  allowed  to  take  its  course,  even  when 
prudence  would  say  nay.  Perhaps  there  was  some  wil- 
fulness in  Martha's  disposition  which  could  only  fruitless- 
ly have  been  opposed,  and,  if  thwarted,  would  have  affect- 
ed not  only  her  future  happiness,  but  her  very  nature; 
and,  judging  considerately  and  affectionately  what  was, 
on  the  whole,  best  for  her  condition  and  circumstances, 
Michael  and  Anrnes  used  few  arguments  to  dissuade  her 
from  her  resolves;  and  then  made  a  promise,  which  they 
faithfully  kept,  to   treat  her  the  same  as  ever  while  she 


238  THE    FORESTERS. 

Stayed  at  Bracken  Braes,  and  to  send  her,  not  only  with 
their  best  prayer  and  advice,  but  with  substantial  com- 
forts, into  the  wide  world. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

The  three  merry  harvest-homes  at  Raeshaw,  Ladyside, 
and  Bracken  Braes,  were  not  over  till  the  first  week  in 
December.  Many  of  the  latest  wagons  left  the  marks  of 
their  wheels  on  the  snow;  and  some  patches  of  grain, 
that  never  ripened  at  all,  fed  the  working  horses  in  the 
field  or  stable.  The  large  kitchens  of  these  houses 
exhibited,  each  on  its  own  night,  a  feast  that  was  not 
long  of  melting  away  before  many  well-earned  appetites. 
There  was  no  distinction  of  rank  between  master  and 
servant,  heritor  or  hind,  at  these  plenteous  boards  ;  nor 
was  there  any  need  of  crabbed  censor  to  restrain  the 
harmless  wit  that  ever  and  anon  set  the  table  in  a  titter 
or  a  roar.  Soon  as  the  few  toasts  had  been  given,  at  the 
head  of  which,  even  before  his  well-beloved  Majesty, 
Great  George  the  King,  came  not  with  loud  cheers,  but 
low  murmuring  congratulations,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Hirst," 
tables,  chairs,  and  forms  were  expeditiously  removed,  and 
the  floor  cleared  for  the  dance,  reel  or  jig  —  for  waltz  or 
cotillon  were  yet  unknown ;  while  Bauldy  Baird,  succes- 
sor to  Blind  Sandy  Paisley,  now  under  the  mouls,  screwed 
his  strings  to  the  sticking-place,  and,  after  a  few  prelusive 
flourishes,  broke,  with  all  his  birr,  into  the  Cameronian 
Rant,  or  Lord  Macdonald's  Reel  Martha  and  the  young 
Highlander  were  conspicuous  for  the  right  good  will  with 
which  they  tripped  it  and  flung  it  to  the  gay  strathspeys. 
Lucy  did  not  decline  the  awkward  bow  and  the  bony 
hand  of  the  homeliest  suitor;  and  even  Mary  Morrison 
herself  was  once  or  twice  on  the  floor,  although  she  pre- 
ferred sitting  with  Agnes  or  Isobel,  or  making   herself 


THE    FORESTERS.  .  239 

useful  among  the  refreshments.  Old  Donald  had  still  in 
the  room  his  unmerciful  bagpipe,  and  among  the  "  sma' 
hours,"  without  asking  leave  of  any  one,  blew  up  his 
chanter  ;  and,  to  the  angry  dismay  of  Bauldy  Baird, 
whose  fiddle  was  then  no  more  heard  than  if  it  had  been 
a  mouse  "  cheepin  i'  the  riggin,"  filled  the  house  with  a 
din  that  made  many  a  pretty  girl  put  her  hands  to  her 
ears,  and  no  doubt  sorely  disturbed  the  bonny  gray  cock, 
and  his  wives  and  family,  in  his  adjoining  roost  beyond 
the  hallan. 

Now  that  all  these  festivities  were  over,  and  winter  had 
fairly  set  in,  who,  to  make  amends  for  his  absence  the 
year  before,  brought  with  him  his  most  boisterous  train 
of  storms  and  snows,  the  Highlanders  spoke  of  taking 
their  departure  —  not  for  their  liut  at  the  Linn  of  Dee, 
for  that  they  had  left  forever  and  a  day,  but  for  distant 
Canada.  Donald  Fraser  had  for  many  years  been  impa- 
tient of  his  poor  and  uncertain,  and  often  inactive  life, 
and  had  resolved  to  emigrate.  He  knew  that  he  had  a 
brother  in  Canada,  although  he  had  not  for  a  long  time 
heard  directly  from  himself,  and  that  he  was  also  in  a 
prosperous  condition  ;  many  of  his  countrymen,  and  not 
a  few  of  his  clan,  were  settled  there;  and  the  old  soldier, 
who  had  been  in  all  climates,  cared  not  if  he  should  leave 
his  bones  in  a  foreign  soil,  since  it  was  tilled  by  Highland 
hands.  Hamish  and  Flora  were  willing  to  go  with  their 
father  ;  and  they  were  buoyed  up  by  the  adventurous  spirit 
of  youth,  that  looked  with  an  imaginative  eye  into  a  life 
beyond  the  seas.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  that  Martha 
would  be  the  one  of  the  party  most  prone  to  regret  or 
fear  ;  she  had  been  contented  in  Ellesmere,  happy  at 
Bracken  Braes,  and  she  now  hoped  to  be  even  more  than 
happy  in  the  Canadian  woods. 

Michael  Forester  could  not,  however,  agree  to  their 
plan  of  embarking  at  Greenock  in  a  vessel  just  then  about 
to  sail,  and  insisted  on  their  waiting  till  the  winter  hurri- 
canes were  over,  and  taking  advantage  of  the  more  mod- 
erate breezes  of  early  spring.  With  some  difliculty  the 
stubborn  veteran  was  prevailed  on  to  remain  in  the  neigh- 
borhood for  a  few  months ;  and  Ewebank,  which,  since 


240  THE    FORESTERS. 

Abraham  Morrison's  death,  had  been  untenanted,  was 
soon  put  into  a  habitable  state.  Donald  and  his  son  took 
immediate  possession.  Michael  sent  over  one  of  his  best 
milch  cows,  and  an  old  oak  chest,  by  way  of  girnel,  well 
filled  in  its  two  departments  with  oat  and  barley  meal ; 
Isobel  added  a  few  of  her  celebrated  mutton  hams  ;  and 
old  Donald  himself,  who,  if  there  was  a  still  within  six 
miles,  scented  it  out  with  miraculous  sagacity,  procured, 
by  some  inexplicable  means,  a  tolerable  sized  cask  of 
mountain  dew,  in  which  he  endeavored  to  assure  his 
sceptical  friend,  Mr.  Forester,  that  there  was  not  a  single 
headach. 

Both  the  veteran  and  hi.s  son  got  plenty  of  winter  work 
to  do,  and  earned  good  wages.  Martha  was  still  an  in- 
mate of  Bracken  Braes,  but  there  were  few  days  on  which 
she  did  not  see  her  lover.  It  was  fixed  that  tlae  wedding 
was  to  take  place  on  her  birth-day,  in  the  middle  of  Feb- 
ruary, when  she  would  have  completed  her  seventeenth 
year ;  and  they  were  to  take  their  passage  in  the  first 
Greenock  ship  that  was  to  sail  for  Canada  in  March. 

Meanwhile  every  hand  was  busy  within  Bracken  Braes, 
getting  ready  clothes  and  comforts  of  ail  kinds  for  the 
voyage,  and  their  Canadian  dwelling.  Martha  had  never 
seemed  to  care  much  about  dress  before,  although  her 
Westmoreland  education  had  taught  her  at  all  times  to 
be  neat  and  tidy  about  the  house,  as  a  swallow ;  but  now 
she  half  imitated  the  way  in  which  Lucy  put  up  her  hair, 
and  half  adorned  her  ringlets,  by  more  careful  and  assidu- 
ous touches  of  her  own  taste.  In  compliment  to  Hamish, 
or  rather,  in  undesigned  sympathy,  she  sent  all  the  way 
to  Edinburgh  for  a  plaid  of  the  Fraser  tartan  ;  and  wheth- 
er it  was  that  her  features  and  complexion  suited  the  col- 
ors of  the  web,  or  that  her  face  was  now  tinged  and  ani- 
mated by  the  glow  of  youthful  passion,  Martha  certainly 
never  had  looked  half  so  well  before,  and  might  even  be 
said  to  have  some  pretensions  to  beauty.  But  Martha 
had  no  pretensions  to  anything  she  did  not  possess;  and 
any  little  alteration  that  now  took  place,  either  in  her 
appearance,  her  manners,  or  her  general  conduct,  pro- 
ceeded entirely  from  that  blameless  joy  that  rose  within 


THE    FORESTERS.  241 

her  heart  at  the  thought  or  the  sight  of  Ilnmish  Fraser  ; 
and  that,  so  far  from  engrossing  her  wholly,  prompted 
her  to  even  more  than  her  usual  oblioingness  and  grati- 
tude to  everybody  around  her,  from  all  her  relations  at 
Bracken  Braes,  to  Alexander  Ainslie  at  Holylee,  who  had 
driven  them,  years  ago  down  from  Ellesmere.  Seeing 
her  cheerfulness,  her  industry,  her  activity,  her  intelli- 
gence, and  her  amiable  disposition,  now  shewn  in  a 
stronger  and  more  trying  light  than  ever,  the  whole  family 
felt  that  they  were  going  to  lose  a  most  excellent  member, 
but  at  the  same  time  one  who  was  admirably  adapted  for 
the  life  she  had  chosen,  and  who  would  be  happy,  and 
make  any  kind  husband  happy,  in  any  corner  of  the 
world. 

The  middle  of  February  was  not  long  of  arriving;  and 
the  young  Highlander  issued  out  from  the  Manse,  after 
Mr.  Kennedy  had  made  them  one,  with  Martha  on  his 
arm,  amidst  a  loud  shout  of  congratulation,  sent  up  from 
all  the  village  school  children,  and  others  of  a  larger 
growth.  Alexander  Ainslie,  whom  nature  had  destined 
for  one  of  the  Tenth  Hussars,  took  the  lead,  and  kept  it 
in  the  broose,  on  an  iron  gray  galloway,  whose  fame  is 
yet  rife  in  the  parish  of  Holylee.  Donald  led  the  foot 
procession  across  the  hills,  with  cheeks  before  which  the 
peony  would  have  waxed  pale,  the  drones  of  his  pipe  flow- 
ing with  a  hundred  ribbons;  and  the  day  being  calm,  it 
is  asserted  that  the  concluding  pibroch  was  heard  in  the 
kirkyard,  all  the  way  from  Ewebank,  although  that  soli- 
tary farm-house  was  three  good  Scottish  miles  from  Holy- 
lee; and  the  length  of  any  one  of  these  may  be  judged  of 
by  all  who  have  performed  the  distance  at  the  close  of  a 
day's  walk,  when  the  wayside  inn  has  seemed  to  retire 
into  the  mists,  and  the  termination  of  a  Scottish  mile  to 
be  extended  to  a  remoteness  fearful  to  the  very  imagina- 
tion. 

About  a  fortnight  after  the  wedding,  a  letter  came  from 

Donald's     agent,    a    tide-waiter    in    Greenock,    rnarked, 

"  Haste  and  care  "  —  an   injunction  to  which,  no  doubt, 

all  due  attention  was  paid  by  more  than  one  postrqaster  — 

21 


242  THE    FORESTERS. 

urging  him  to  appear  forthwith  on  the  qua)',  for  that  the 
good  ship  Montreal  was  nearly  ready  for  sea. 

Before  the  marriage,  Michael  Forester  had  given  Mar- 
tlia  fifty  pounds  in  money,  and  paid  all  their  passages  to 
Q,uebec ;  stores  had  been  also  purchased  for  them  in 
Greenock  ;  and  Martha's  wardrobe  was  little  inferior  in 
the  number  of  articles,  and  far  superior  in  solid  worth,  to 
many  a  young  lady  sailing  in  the  Orient  for  a  husband. 
Donald,  Hamish,  and  Flora,  had  each  a  privy  purse  — 
what  sums  they  held  did  not  appear,  but  they  could  not 
have  been  very  magnificent,  saved  as  they  had  been  from 
the  wages  of  their  Lowland  harvests.  A  certain  sum  was 
to  be  sent  to  them  annually,  after  it  was  known  where 
they  had  ultimately  settled,  so  that  the  emigrants  were  to 
be  independent  of  Donald's  brother,  who  might  be  dead, 
or,  if  alive,  unwilling  to  acknowledge  the  claims  of  kin- 
dred. There  was,  in  good  truth,  nothing  to  send  them 
away  to  Canada,  but  the  hearts  of  one  and  all  yearned 
for  a  foreign  land  ,  their  cool  determination  had  become 
longing  desire ;  and  even  Martha  was  impatient  to  hear 
the  rustling  of  the  great  ship's  sails  — so  different  from 
those  that  she  had  seen  gliding  along  the  blue  water  of 
Windermere —  and  that  were  to  waft  her  away  from  the 
hollow  skies,  which  lately  had  seemed  to  her  to  encircle 
the  whole  world. 

The  emigrants  came  to  take  farewell,  most  probably 
forever,  of  their  friends  at  Bracken  Braes.  Martha  sat 
by  the  side  of  her  youthful  husband,  and  was  waited  upon 
by  Lucy,  who,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  handed  round  wine 
and  cake  on  the  little  silver  tray  she  had  got  in  a  present 
from  Emma  Cranstoun.  Mary  Morrison  could  not  help 
looking  at  the  young  bride  almost  with  pity,  for  her  sake, 
and  with  a  mournful  remembrance  of  her  own  sad  story  ; 
but  Aunt  Isobel  would  not  allow  even  a  parting  scene  to 
be  clouded  with  vain  grief.  "  God  bless  you  baith,  my 
gude  bairns  —  nae  fear  you  will  be  happy.  Hear  how 
the  very  bird,  in  his  cage  there,  sings  to  you  —  the  first 
time  he  has  tuned  his  pipes  this  spring — and  isna  it  a 
cheerfu'  sang  ?  A'  the  world  over,  nae  better  omens  are 
desired  than  the  lilt  o'  birds;   and,  in  Scotland,  the  maist 


THE    FORESTERS.  243 

encouraging  is  that  o'  the  lintvvliite  and  the  mavis." 
Agnes  put  a  small  Bible  into  Martha's  hand,  and  asked 
back  her  own  as  a  memorial ;  Michael  put  his  hand  on 
her  head,  and,  remembering  his  brother  Abel,  gave  her 
a  silent  blessing ;  and  then  sweet  Flora  Fraser  came  in 
for  her  share  of  the  tender  farewell,  when  the  emigrant?! 
at  last  rose  to  go.  Lucy  and  Mary  Morrison  were  not  in 
the  room  ;  but  they  had  gone  to  wait  for  them  a  little  way 
down  the  burn,  and  they  did  not  return  home  till  more 
than  an  hour  after  their  final  departure. 


CHAPTER     XLII. 

Once  more  had  the  sunny  June  loaded  the  woods  of 
the  Hirst  with  beauty,  and  darkened  into  grateful  twilight 
a  thousand  glades,  that,  but  a  month  ago,  were  all  open  to 
the  sky.  The  gray  walls  of  the  ancient  edifice  could  now 
be  espied  but  from  a  few  distant  points;  for  oak,  elm, 
and  sycamore  were  hiding  all  its  turrets.  For  two  dull 
years,  the  majestic  and  venerable  place  had  lost  the  ani- 
mating and  presiding  spirit,  that  breathed  a  cheerfulness 
throughout  all  its  scenery.  Although  skilful  hands  had 
continued  to  do  everything  required  by  the  perfect  order 
and  regularity  of  the  walks,  lawns,  and  gardens,  that 
furnished  a  delightful  contrast  to  the  rich  confusion  of 
nature  over  the  adjacent  groves  and  remoter  woods,  yet, 
during  the  absence  of  the  lady,  many  fine  and  delicate 
perceptions  had  been  wanting,  which  had  formerly  dis- 
covered, almost  every  day,  some  new  embellishment,  or 
some  magic  change  —  perhaps  no  more  than  the  lopping 
oflf  a  bough,  or  the  thinning  of  a  coppice-screen,  that,  in 
a  moment,  brought  the  airy  distance  to  view,  or  a  cot- 
tage embowered  in  trees,  or  a  bright  slope  of  hill  side,  or 
a  wider  expanse  of  sky,  for  the  clouds  to  travel  in  or  to 
repose.     But  now  the  Hirst  was  to  be  jocund  as  in  its 


244  THE    FORESTERS. 

best  days;  for  llie  wide  gates  of  the  avenue  were  flung 
open,  and,  under  an  arch  —  a  triumphal  arch  of  flowers 
and  blossoms —  was  the  lady  expected  to  pass  to  her  na- 
tive home,  returnincT  from  blessed  Italy  in  perfect  health, 
and,  as  the  rumor  flew,  if  possible  more  beautiful  than 
ever. 

A  few  days  before,  there  had  been  a  meeting  of  some 
of  the  most  intelligent  of  the  tenantry,  and  they  had 
arranged  with  the  land  steward  their  plan  of  welcome. 
Ten  thousand  branches  would  never  be  missed  in  those 
extensive  and  gigantic  woods ;  the  removal  of  ten  thou- 
sand flowery  sprays  would  scarcely  dim  the  lustre  of  that 
wilderness  of  lilacs  and  laburnums;  the  bees  would  know 
no  difference  among  the  banks  of  wallflowers,  although 
troops  of  children  were  to  carry  away,  in  little  baskets 
on  their  heads,  all  that  their  hands  in  one  forenoon  could 
gather  of  those  balmiest  treasures  of  our  Scottish  Flora; 
and  if  the  earliest  roses  must  go,  although  yet  but  in  the 
bud,  let  them  be  plucked  without  a  sigh,  and  trust  to  the 
prodigal  summer  to  bring  undiminished  brightness  to 
every  i)arterre  and  terrace.  But  they  all  knew  that  the 
lady  had  been  fond  of  roaming  among  the  braes,  and  that 
she  admired  nothing  more  than  the  spreading  fern,  and 
the  broom  that  yellowed  the  little  lonely  glens.  Many  a 
pretty  plant,  and  flower,  and  weed,  grows  almost  in  every 
solitary  nook,  and  places  familiar  only  to  the  birds,  bees, 
and  sheep,  were  now  rifled  of  their  sweetness,  that  the 
triumphal  arch  might  shew  to  her  gaze  some  of  the  na- 
tive products  of  the  hills,  intermingling  their  simple 
charms  with  the  richness  of  the  lawn  and  garden.  It 
was  not  till  a  little  after  sunrise,  on  the  very  morning  the 
lady  was  expected  to  arrive,  that  the  last  touches  were 
given  to  the  arch  by  Lucy's  own  hands,  and  so  many  j)er- 
fectly  fresh  and  unfading  flowers  were  clustering  there, 
that  the  wandering  bees  wheeled  from  their  forward 
flight  to  the  clover  lee,  and  lingered  in  the  honey  dew  of 
those  gorgeous  garlands. 

Sucii  was  the  spirit  of  the  festival  ;  for,  among  those 
lowly  folks,  love  looked  to  imagination  to  brighten  the 
lady's    birthplace    to    her    eyes    on    her    return   from   a 


THE    FORESTEKS.  245 

foreign  land.  Tliat  triumphal  arch  was  nothing  less 
than  most  beautiful,  with  its  shower  of  blossoms  now 
moving  in  the  breeze,  and  now,  when  the  air  was  calm, 
depending  steadfiistly  as  images  in  water.  But  the  bu- 
gle rang  from  the  top  of  tiie  central  turret  of  the  hall 
—  a  signal  of  the  happy  approach  —  and  up  came  a  splen- 
did equipage  sweejiing  along,  while  the  tall  white  ostrich 
feathers,  gracefully  nodding  in  the  airy  sunshine,  told 
all  the  joyful  assemblage  that  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  was 
there.  There  was  no  shout,  nor  yet  was  there  any  music 
to  sound  a  welcome;  but  all  the  tenantry  stood  with  un- 
covered and  bowed  heads  in  salutation;  not  with  down- 
cast looks,  as  on  the  day  she  left  them,  but  with  smiles 
of  rejoicing,  and  not  a  few  tears,  amidst  a  deepening 
murmur  of  blessings.  On  both  sides  of  the  entrance, 
immediately  below  the  arch  that  shed  flowers  down  upon 
their  bosoms,  stood  a  row  of  pretty  children,  all  dressed 
in  white,  who  dropped  courtesies,  with  eyes  fixed  in  ad- 
miration of  their  lady's  angelic  beauty,  as  she  stood  up 
in  the  carriage,  and,  perhaps  little  able  to  speak,  waved 
blessings  over  all  tlie  crowd,  with  arms  that,  in  their 
graceful  motion,  were  fairer  than  the  snow.  A  little 
apart  from  the  main  assemblage,  in  hopes  of  attracting 
the  lady's  eyes,  stood  the  party  from  Bracken  Braes;  and 
Lucy's  heart  quaked  with  joy  when  that  hand  waved  a 
kiss  towards  her,  and  a  smile  followed  it,  of  such  pierc- 
ing sweetness  as  placed  her  at  once  in  heaven. 

This  was  no  idle  pageant,  that  passes  away,  and  leaves 
the  heart  half  despising  the  emptiness  of  a  fantastic 
dream.  But  here  gratitude  gave  visible  and  vivid  ex- 
pression to  itself,  for  its  own  and  its  object's  delight,  in 
the  greenness  of  bough,  and  the  brightness  of  blossom, 
which  might,  without  any  regret,  all  fade  and  wither  in 
the  next  week's  sun,  since  the  feeling  they  symbolled 
was  imperishable.  The  very  children  felt  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  spectacle,  of  which  themselves  made  a 
proud  part;  and  the  wonderful  show  of  flowers  was  un- 
derstood by  them,  as  it  indeed  was,  to  be  an  offering  to 
Heaven  —  although  they  had  never  heard  of  such  altars 
21* 


246  THE    FORESTERS. 

• — of  thanksgiving  for  that  beautiful  being's  escape  from 
the  grave.  The  Sabbath  before  Mr.  Kennedy  had  al- 
luded to  her  in  his  prayer;  and  that  recollection  now 
gave  within  every  innocent  heart  over  which  it  came  a 
religious  sanctity  to  the  rural  festival. 

Nor  was  the  assemblage  suffered  to  depart  and  dis- 
solve, till  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst  had  an  opportunity  of 
more  fully  expressing  her  sense  of  the  kindness  shewn, 
than  she  had  been  able  to  do  in  the  sudden  surprise  of 
that  delightful  reception.  A  message  was  sent  to  Mr. 
Forester,  who  was  present,  in  perfect  happiness,  amidst 
the  beauty  of  a  scene  which,  from  Lucy's  words,  he  had 
been  at  no  loss  to  imagine,  that  she  would  be  happy  to 
see  all  her  friends,  young  and  old,  on  the  southern  lawn. 
There  they  were  soon  arranged  in  an  order  that  could 
not  be  otlierwise  than  proper,  since  all  fell  into  the 
places  that  were  felt  to  belong  to  their  own  age,  charac- 
ter, or  condition.  The  door  of  the  greenhouse  opened, 
and  down  came  the  lady,  with  light  steps,  and  across 
the  carpet  sod,  close  to  the  first  row  of  her  humble  friends. 
With  the  sweetest  smiles  that  ever  were  seen,  she,  first 
of  all,  said,  that  she  hoped  happiness  had  been  in  their 
homes ;  and  then,  with  a  more  solemn  expression  of 
eyes,  returned  thanks  to  Cod  in  their  presence  for  his 
great  mercy  to  herself  "  But  where  is  Lucy  Forester  1 " 
These  few  words,  said  with  a  silvery  tone,  brought  Lucy 
from  her  father's  side;  and  as  she  stood  there,  with  eyes 
downcast,  and  cheeks  pale  in  emotion,  many  thought 
that  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  most  beautiful  — 
Emma  Cranstoun  or  Lucy  Forester.  All,  too,  remem- 
bered that  she  had  attended  the  lady  in  her  illness,  and 
had  been  instrumental  in  saving  her  very  life.  Was  it 
not  also  well  known  that  Lucy  had  been  the  friend  of 
all,  whenever  she  had  been  questioned  about  their  fire- 
sides ;  and  that,  from  her  representation,  their  benefac- 
tress had  learned  all  her  true  knowledge  of  the  family 
at  Bracken  Braes,  Therefore,  not  one  heart  there  felt 
the  slightest  touch  of  envy  on  seeing  Lucy  thus  singled 
out;  while  Michael,  who  had  heard  the  words  with 
sightless  eyes  towards  heaven,  was  perhaps  the  happiest 


THE    FORESTERS.  247 

man  there  ;  and  llie  gentle  Agnes  cared  not  if  the  whole 
assembly  noticed  her  gushing  tears.  Emma  Cranstoun 
kissed  Lucy's  cheek,  and  whispered  a  few  words  into  her 
ear  ;  and  then,  knowing  her  own  station,  and  finally  un- 
derstanding how  far  the  lady's  condescension  was,  at 
this  time,  meant  to  extend,  Michael's  daughter,  after  a 
low  obeisance,  returned  to  his  side,  and  the  whole  group 
expressed  their  pleasure  and  applause. 

This  had  not  been  intended  for  one  of  those  more  or- 
dinary commonplace  merry  meetings,  where  tables  are 
placed  beneath  the  shade,  and  the  jovial  tenantry  of  some 
great  estate  feast  in  honor  of  the  house.  Such  festivals 
have  their  own  peculiar  character  of  happiness,  and  may 
they  never  be  blotted  out  from  the  holidays.  But  here 
the  meaning  of  the  entire  day  was  higher  and  more 
solemn  :  little  parties  were  formed  by  the  children  and 
their  parents,  up  and  down  the  woods,  at  some  consider- 
able distance  from  the  hall,  which  wr,s  now  left  altogether 
undisturbed  ;  other  groups  took  their  frugal  refreshments 
by  the  spring  wells  among  the  braes,  plucking  thevvater 
cresses  to  their  bread  ;  and,  in  net  a  ^ew  of  the  houses 
on  the  estate,  there  were  evening  meetings  of  youths  and 
maidens,  who  were  all  dressed  already  in  their  best  array, 
and  saw  each  other  home,  among  the  falling  dews,  and 
below  the  moon  and  stars. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

Lucy  had  never,  in  former  years,  contemplated  the 
beauty  of  Emma  Cranstoun  without  melancholy  ;  but  now 
there  was  no  occasion  for  any  such  feeling;  for  her  step, 
although  light  as  ever,  was  now  far  more  elastic.  Noth- 
ing like  lassitude  or  decay  belonged  to  her  most  graceful 
of  all  figuies.  Her  voice  was  mellow  as  her  own  new- 
strung  lute  ;  and  the  joyfulness  of  grateful  health  tinged 


248  THE    FORESTERS. 

her  face,  without  being  able  to  overcome  its  characteris- 
tic pensiveness.  She  never  could  —  never  ought  —  never 
wished  to  forget,  that  from  the  very  brink  of  death  she 
had  been  restored  ;  and  that  remembrance,  present  with 
her  in  her  pleasanter  hours,  could  not  but  give  to  her  eyes 
a  perpetual  expression  of  piety,  that  threw  an  affecting 
light  over  all  her  ordinary  pursuits.  It  might  well  have 
been  said  that  her  manners  were  religious,  for  they  were 
all  inspired  by  a  spirit  that  was  so  indeed ;  and  while 
Emma  Cranstoun  seldom  or  never  introduced,  into  her 
common  conversation,  any  of  that  language  which,  being 
divine,  ought  cautiously  to  be  guarded  against  any  in- 
voluntary profanation,  her  pious  heart  spoke  in  the  entire 
structure  of  her  speech.  She  said,  that  she  liked  even  to 
hear  Lucy's  Doric  tongue ;  but  what  could  be  her  plea- 
sure, in  all  its  simple  or  Scottish  phrases,  sweetly  sylla- 
bled as  they  were,  to  the  delight  which  Lucy  enjoyed 
from  that  perfectly  beautiful  English  that  flowed  from  the 
lady's  lips,  expressive  at  once  of  all  the  highest  endow- 
ments of  mind  and  soul,  and  of  a  range  both  of  thought 
and  feeling  to  which  the  humble  shepherdess  of  Bracken 
Braes  feared  even  to  raise  her  imagination. 

Lucy  felt  now,  even  more  than  ever,  the  vast  distance 
at  which  she  stood  from  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst.  But  her's 
was  still  the  same  affection,  not  at  all  altered  in  its  nature, 
only  deepened  and  strengthened  by  a  clearer  insight  into 
the  order  of  things.  When  a  child —  at  least  a  mere  girl 
—  she  had  often  sat  in  the  lady's  presence,  never,  never 
indeed,  with  anything  like  the  feeling  of  an  equal,  but 
almost  without  any  restraint,  and  free  of  her  own  accord 
to  talk  or  to  smile.  But  now  Lucy  saw  the  nice  duties 
of  look  and  manner  which  that  gracious  and  benign 
friendship  imposed  —  duties  that  no  one  else  could  have 
discerned.  "There  is  nothing  to  hinder  love  from  existing 
between  persons  in  most  unequal  conditions,  when  each 
knows  well  the  full  nature  of  her  own  ;  and  perhaps  in 
some  peculiarly  felicitous  instances,  that  very  inequality 
preserves  the  completeness  of  the  emotion,  and  continues 
it  to  the  end  pure,  unfading,  and  entire.  It  was  so  with 
Emma  Cranstoun  and  Lucy  Forester.     Here  it  might  be 


THE    FOKESTEKS.  249 

said  met  together  the  genii  of  the  hall  and  the  hut  —  and 
who  could  pronounce  which  spirit  was  most  beautiful, 
the  lady  with  her  dark  hair  braided  across  her  pensive 
forehead,  and  a  few  pearls  among  the  lace  veil  that  shap- 
ed her  head-dress  into  that  which  charms  in  old  pictures 
of  our  Mary  Queen,  or  the  shepherdess  with  her  golden 
tresses  yet  as  rich  in  ringlets  as  when  Isaac  Mayne  com- 
l)ared  it  to  a  star  twinkling  on  the  brow  t)f  the  hill,  with 
rays  seemingly  half  light  and  half  dew,  so  bright,  and  yet 
so  soft,  the  splendor  ? 

"  What  a  heart  must  be  her's,"  thought  Lucy,  "  never 
to  have  forgotten  one  single  event  or  incident,  however 
small,  that  we  ever  talked  about  —  never  to  have  lost  the 
least  part  of  her  interest  in  any  of  the  concerns  of  any 
one  poor  family  in  the  whole  parish,  after  an  absence  of 
two  years  —  and  these  years,  too,  past  in  struggling  with 
disease  in  far  away  countries !  What  a  memory  have  the 
truly  good  !"  All  this  was  true,  and  no  exaggeration  of 
Lucy's  admiring  heart.  Indeed,  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst 
was  more  attached  to  it  than  ever;  and  now  that  her 
health  allowed  her  to  rise  with  the  sun,  what  blessings 
was  it  in  her  power  to  bestow  during  the  length  of  a  mid- 
summer day  !  At  Bracken  Braes  all  that  was  needed  was 
her  presence.  "An  hour  in  the  week,  on  an  average,  all 
the  year  through,  will  content  me,"  said  the  blind  man  ; 
"  a  visit  from  her  makes  that  day  a  Sabbath,  Agnes  — 
does  it  not?"  And  Agnes  felt  the  very  same  state  of 
mind  her  husband  had  thus  expressed.  Aunt  Isobel,  it 
seems,  had  once  seen  the  lady's  mother  on  the  steps  of 
Dalkeith  House  when  she  was  a  bride;  but  she  was  forc- 
ed to  confess  that  the  living  Emma  Cranstoun  was  the 
fairer —  one  of  the  few  instances  on  record  of  a  daughter 
being  more  beautiful  than  her  mother.  Mary  Morrison, 
now  almost  cheerful  in  her  widowhood,  yet  meek  as  when 
that  word  was  in  childhood  first  applied  by  general  con- 
sent to  her  name,  desired  no  better  happiness  than  to  be- 
hold Lucy  sitting  in  the  lady's  smiles  ;  but  if  not  a  better, 
yet  a  more  animating  happiness  was  her's,  when  she  her- 
self too  came  in  for  her  own  share  of  kindness,  retired  as 
she  most  frequently  was  on  some  seat  in  a  nook,  or  a  little 


250 


THE    FORESTERS. 


out  of  the  circle,  not  to  shun  observation,  for  she  had 
lived  once  more  to  love  the  sunshine,  but  from  an  hum- 
ble habit  learned  in  other  days,  and  proceeding  from  a 
part  of  her  very  nature. 

"  Lucy,  have  you  heard  that  my  brother  is  coming  to 
the  Hirst  ?  I  fear  that  his  long  detention  in  France  has 
not  been  for  the  benefit  of  his  character  ;  but  I  shall  hope 
the  best.  You  know  that  I  had  not  seen  Harry  since  I 
was  almost  a  child ;  but  last  winter  he  came  to  see  me  at 
Rome.  He  is,  alas!  too  much  a  foreigner  —  but  he 
treated  me  with  the  greatest  affection.  I  do  not  think 
that  he  will  ever  live  at  the  Hirst;  and  he  has  told  me 
that  I  may  live  here,  if  I  choose,  all  my  life."  No  words 
could  be  more  happy  to  Lucy,  for  her  heart  did  not  ex- 
pect, and  scarcely  wished  ever  to  care  much  for  anything 
out  of  the  parish  of  Holylee. 

But  Emma  Cranstoun  had  another  communication  to 
confide  to  Lucy,  and  she  was  now  led  to  do  so  from  its 
connection  with  what  she  had  said  about  her  brother.  "  I 
am  engaged,  Lucy,  to  be  married;  but  he  who  hopes  to 
be  my  husband  loves  dearly  the  parish  of  Holylee,  and  we 
shall  reside  at  the  Hirst,  if  my  brother  prefers  living 
abroad  —  if  he  possesses  the  hall  of  his  forefathers,  which 
I  wish  he  may  do,  then  Mr.  Ellis  intends  to  purchase  the 
Mains,  and  build  a  mansion  there,  on  the  site  of  the  pre- 
sent ruin." 

"  Mr.  Ellis  !"  that  word  almost  stopped  the  beatings  of 
Lucy's  heart,  although  at  first  it  made  it  flutter  nearly  in- 
to a  fainting  fit;  but  Emma  Cranstoun  was  herself  too 
much  possessed  by  her  own  thoughts  to  observe  her  emo- 
tion. "  Edward  told  me  that  he  had  frequently  visited 
the  family  at  Bracken  Braes  ;  and,  indeed,  when  I  think 
of  your  moonlight  journey,  I  could  almost  be  jealous  ;" 
and  Emma  lifted  her  beautiful  white  arm  to  adjust  a  ring- 
let that  she  then  felt  upon  her  blushing  cheek,  with  a 
smile  that  shewed  at  once  ignorance  of  poor  Lucy's  first 
love,  and  confidence  in  the  power  of  her  beauty.  "  I  am 
sure,  Lucy,  you  will  admire  my  Edward  ;  he,  I  know, 
will  love  every  one  I  love;  and  there  is  not,  and  never 
will  be,  that  friend  dearer  to  my  heart  than  Lucy  Forester." 


THE    FORESTERS.  251 

Lucy  soon  recovered  her  composure  —  and,  indeed, 
what  had  there  been  said  to  agitate  her  —  lor  liad  not 
Edward  Ellis  been  long  ago  thought  of  with  unpainful 
affection,  and,  of  late,  often  removed  out  of  her  remem- 
brance !  And,  then,  had  not  her  own  heart  found  more 
pleasure,  more  happiness,  more  delight,  than  perhaps  she 
might  be  willing  to  confess,  even  to  herself,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Miles  Colinson  ?  Could  she  have  laid  her  hand 
on  that  fair  bosom,  and  denied  that  it  had  ever  heaved  a 
tender  sigh  when  dreaming  of  Ellesmere  1  Was  a  dream 
of  the  days  of  old,  once  bright  and  beautiful  as  it  was  — 
and  tender,  most  tender,  in  all  its  celestial  bliss  —  to  come 
back  from  the  mist  to  drive  away  the  pleasant  prospects 
which  were  dawning  around  her  life,  or  to  deaden  her 
spirit  to  the  enjoyment  of  more  sober  realities  ?  Lucy 
had  too  simple,  too  strong,  too  wise  a  heart,  long  to  in- 
dulge in  such  delusions  ;  and,  after  a  pause  of  not  very 
many  minutes,  she  kissed  the  lady's  hand  —  an  expression 
of  attachment  which  she  especially  loved,  because,  felt  to 
be  at  once  respectful  and  endearing —  and,  after  prayers 
for  her  happiness  with  Mr.  Ellis,  as  sincere  as  ever  went 
to  heaven,  she  returned  perfectly  happy,  by  the  Gow- 
an  Green  and  the  Hawk  Stane  Spring,  to  Bracken 
Braes. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

When  Michael  Forester  compared  all  the  circumstan- 
ces of  his  life,  from  his  earliest  remembrances,  with  all 
that  he  knew  of  the  lot  of  any  other  individual,  high  or 
low,  rich  or  poor  —  and  such  comparisons  had,  of  late 
years,  been  more  and  more  frequently  made  by  him  in 
his  solitary  meditations,  or  in  cheerful  conversation  with 
his  beloved  Agnes,  when  all  the  household  were  asleep  — 
what  reason  had  he  to  be  grateful  to  Providence  for  so 


252  THE    FORESTERS. 


t- 


many  undeserved  blessings!  Even  their  unceasing  so- 
licitude about  Lucy  had  been  to  them  both  a  source  ol" 
happiness ;  for,  in  all  their  anxieties,  they  felt  that  she 
was  nevertheless  secure,  and  that  their  fears  proceeded 
entirely  from  an  excess  of  parental  affection.  Her  beauty 
and  her  goodness  were  to  them  one  idea;  and,  when 
praying  together,  they  felt  assured  that  both  were  inde- 
structible. Then,  how  had  all  their  worldly  affairs  pros- 
pered !  Rich  they  were  not,  nor  wished  to  be ;  bad  sea- 
sons and  fluctuating  prices  had  affected  them  as  well  as 
their  neighbors;  and,  for  a  good  many  years,  they  had 
had  struggles  to  preserve  their  independence.  But  the 
farm  of  Bracken  Braes  had  seemed  to  become  more  pro- 
ductive after  Michael's  blindness,  not  merely  from  its 
increased  cultivation,  but  even  as  if  the  sunshine  and  the 
dews  had  visited  it  more  genially  since  that  affliction. 
All  the  money  that  Michael  had  at  first  to  borrow  had 
been  repaid ;  Aunt  Isobfel's  three  hundred  pounds  had 
again  been  put  into  the  bank  in  her  own  name  —  for,  old 
as  she  was,  it  was  yet  possible  that  she  might  survive 
them  all;  the  stock  on  the  farm  was  his  own,  and  the 
furniture  in  the  house;  and  he  had  considerable  sums 
lent  on  unexceptionable  securities.  Were  Lucy  ever  to 
be  left  an  orphan,  she  would  be  very  far  from  destitute ; 
and,  perhaps,  that  confidence  is  the  most  perfectly  sooth- 
ing and  satisfactory  feeling  that  can  fill  the  bosoms  of 
affectionate  and  thoughtful  parents.  What  more  could 
they  desire  on  this  side  the  grave? 

Now  that  Lucy  was  grown  to  woman's  estate,  they 
sometimes  had  spoken  to  her  of  such  matters  ;  and,  al- 
though at  first  she  listened  with  a  painful  feeling — for 
the  very  possibility  which  these  conversations  implied  of 
her  parents'  death  was  most  distressing — yet,  since  they 
were  so  deeply  interested  in  what  they  said,  she  did  not 
interrupt  them,  and  even  put  on  an  appearance  of  being 
interested  herself,  which  was  altogether  foreign  to  her 
real  state  of  mind.  As  long  as  her  father  and  her  mother 
lived,  Lucy  cared  not  either  about  riches  or  poverty; 
were  they  to  die,  she  felt  that  nothing  could  ever  lighten 
to  her  eyes  the  darkened  earth.     But  they  were  both  well. 


THE    FORESTERS.  253 

Strong,  and  happy;  neither  were  they  old ;  and,  as  for 
her  mother,  Lucy  thought  her,  nor  was  she  greatly  de- 
ceived, except  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst,  the  most  beautiful 
person  she  had  ever  seen;  but  Emma  Cranstoun  was  not 
yet  twenty,  and  Agnes  Hay  nearly  twice  that  age.  Her 
matronly  loveliness  was  yet  admired  by  all ;  but  they  who 
remembered  her  when  she  first  came  into  the  parish  of 
Holylee,  doubted  if,  at  that  time,  she  could  not  have  stood 
a  comparison  even  with  the  lady,  now  in  the  perfection 
of  her  virgin  beauty. 

Thr-y  were  all  sitting  together  under  the  plane  tree, 
and  Lucy  cheering  the  evening  silence  with  a  song,  when 
a  stranger,  who  had  stood  unobserved  at  a  small  distance 
during  the  time  she  was  singing,  advanced  courteously, 
and  introduced  himself  as  Mr.  JMaxwell.  The  name  was 
one  that  had  long  since  ceased  to  be  familiar  to  Michael's 
mind  ;  but  Agnes  at  once  recognised  a  likeness  in  his 
features  to  those  of  the  gentleman  whom  she  had  seen  at 
Dovenest,  that  evening  her  husband  told  her  of  the  ruin 
of  his  fortunes.  "  I  am  the  only  son,  Mr.  Forester,  of 
Mr.  Maxwell  who  came  into  possession  of  your  property 
between  Lasswade  and  Roslin."  These  words  awoke 
many  remembrances  in  Michael's  mind,  but  they  were  of 
no  painful  nature,  for  he  had  never  repined  from  the  first 
day  he  had  left  Dovenest,  and  had  long  been  so  perfectly 
reconciled  to  his  lot,  that  he  often  felt  the  pleasure  of 
living  over  again  his  life  in  those  quiet  gardens  washed 
by  the  Esk  that  murmured  louder  than  the  Heriot  Water 
in  his  dreams.  "  It  is  getting  late  in  the  evening,  sir; 
will  you  be  our  guest  till  the  morning?"  Mr.  Maxwell 
assented,  and  they  ail  went  together  into  the  house. 

It  was  not  till  after  supper  and  prayers  that  their  guest 
spoke  of  any  but  ordinary  subjects;  but  just  as  Lucy  was 
lighting  his  taper,  he  asked  leave  to  address  them  on  an 
affair  of  some  importance,  and  which  he  hoped  would 
tend  in  some  measure  even  to  promote  their  domestic 
happiness,  although  he  saw,  and  indeed  previously  knew, 
that  it  was  built  on  a  surer  foundation  than  mere  temporal 
prosperity.     "  My  father,   Mr.   Forester,  was  an  honest 


.254  THE    FORESTEES. 

and  upright  man,  and  I  should  be  unworthy  of  calling 
myself  his  son,  did  I  not  respect  his  memory.  But  by 
his  successful  industry  I  nm  now  a  rich  man,  and  I  am 
come  to  restore  to  you  the  full  value  of  that  property 
which,  on  an  unfortunate  occasion,  passed  from  your 
into  his  hands.  I  do  not  say  that  I  am  unentitled  to  it, 
although  my  doubts  are  strong ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  it 
is  now  yours  ;  and  had  the  place  itself  not  long  ago  been 
purchased  and  repurchased,  as  you  know,  Dovenest  itself 
should  now  have  been  put  into  your  possession.  Before 
I  leave  this  roof,  my  words  shall  be  made  good." 

Michael  Forester  continued  to  sit  exactly  in  the  same 
posture  in  which  he  was  before  Mr.  Maxwell  began  to 
speak,  nor  did  any  visible  emotion  pass  over  his  placid 
countenance.  Agnes  looked  at  her  husband,  but  her 
face  was  equally  calm.  Aunt  Isobel  alone  spoke  :  — 
"Ay  —  there  is  an  honest  man  —  something  more  than 
honest  —  your  very  face,  my  friend,  declares  your  charac- 
ter, and  my  heart  warmed  towards  you  when  you  knelt 
beside  me  on  our  earthen  floor.  Your  substance  will  not 
be  lessened  by  this  act;  but  for  it  and  others  like  it  — 
for  good  deeds,  like  bad,  never  go  single — Providence 
will  bless  your  children's  children."  Mr.  Maxwell  seemed 
to  feel  that  his  conduct  scarcely  deserved  such  benedic- 
tion ;  but  as  his  conscience  told  him  that  he  was  doing 
right,  his  heart  did  not  wholly  decline  the  old  lady's  com- 
mendations, and  he  had  seldom  been  happier  than  he  now 
was  at  that  fireside. 

Michael,  in  a  few  minutes,  shewed  that  very  strong 
feelings  were  rising  within  his  breast.  The  mere  recovery 
of  what  had  been  lost  so  long  ago  did  not  afTect  him  at 
all,  but  the  principle  of  Mr.  Maxwell's  conduct  did  so 
exceedingly,  and  there  also  came  over  him  a  deep  sense 
of  the  goodness  of  his  Maker.  How  had  all  things  wrought 
together  for  the  good  of  himself  and  family  !  His  father 
had  died  quite  happy  at  last,  and  full  of  years  —  poor 
Abel,  after  much  suffering,  no  doubt,  which  his  errors 
incurred,  had  found,  when  all  his  wanderings  were  over, 
a  hopeful  death-bed,  and  a  quiet  grave  —  Martha  the 
orphan,  although  far  away,  had  prospects  of  happiness  in 


THE    FORESTERS.  255 

that  peaceful  foreign  land  —  who  was  so  good,  and  so 
happy,  as  his  beautiful  Lucy  —  Agnes  Hay  had  brought 
blessings  into  his  house  which  none  enjoyed  more  than 
that  gentle  spirit  —  in  extreme  age,  Aunt  Isobel  was 
cheerful  as  a  new-stirred  fire  —  and  Mary  Morrison,  in 
her  meekness,  was  like  a  child  of  their  own  at  Bracken 
Braes. 

For  an  hour  after  all  the  others  had  retired  to  rest, 
Michael  sat  by  himself  in  his  chair,  aware,  from  the 
cessation  of  the  flickering  sound,  that  the  fire  was  dead 
on  the  hearth.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  alone  in  the  per- 
fect silence.  His  whole  soul  was  calm  and  bright  as 
the  heavens  stretched  with  their  stars  over  all  the  quiet 
hills. 

What  stronger  proof  of  the  superior  e.xcellence  and 
happiness  of  virtue,  than  that  placid  and  serene  content- 
ment that  is  almost  always  the  portion  of  the  blind  ! 
That  inner  world,  which  is  to  us  all  the  most  essential 
world  which  we  inhabit,  is  to  them  more  clearly  discov- 
ered than  to  ourselves.  Our  inward  eye  is  dazzled  with 
the  light  in  which  we  live;  but  theirs,  in  its  darkness, 
sees  well  and  undisturbedly.  Their  mind  is  a  clearer 
world  to  them,  as  it  is  also  more  clearly  revealed.  Hence 
it  is,  that  judging  more  justly  of  the  human  soul,  they  are 
less  troubled  with  its  passions.  Cut  off  from  so  many  ol 
the  amusements  and  pursuits  of  human  life,  and  left  so 
much  to  the  dominion  of  their  own  silent  spirits,  they 
feel  and  know  that  there  is  no  stability  —  no  hope  —  no 
trust  in  vicious  appetences  or  degrading  thoughts.  All 
these  they  fear  and  abhor  as  false  friemiri,  stealing  upon 
the  noiseless  calm  of  their  lives,  and  whose  visit  must 
bring  and  leave  behind  trouble  and  remorse.  But  kind 
affections  —  pure  sentiments  —  lofty  thoughts  —  gentle 
opinions  of  humanity  —  and  devout  feelings  towards  God  ; 
these  are  a  solace  and  support,  in  which  there  can  be 
nothing  vain  or  delusive.  Resignation  is  ever  attended 
with  its  own  perfect  peace;  and  the  blind,  sitting  in  their 
solitude,  and  for  a  while  forgotten,  perhaps  even  by  those 
who  most  tenderly  love  them,  are  happy,  because  their 
souls  are  true  to  virtue,  and  because  the  Great  Being 


256  THE    FORESTERS, 

who  inflicted  the  dispensation,  has  more  than  compensated 
it,  by  that  inward  light  which  shines  amidst  the  thick- 
est darkness,  with  its  own  sacred  and  inextinguishable 
lustre. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

The  Hirst  had,  for  severaKweeks,  been  a  scene  of  un- 
usual festivities;  for  Henry  Cranstoun,  with  several  fash- 
ionable friends,  had  arrived  there  from  London  ;  and  it 
soon  appeared  that  his  tastes  and  enjoyments  were  alto- 
gether of  a  different  description  from  those  of  his  incom- 
parable sister.  Mr.  Cranstoun  had  not  been  in  Scotland 
since  his  childhood;  for  he  had  received  his  education  at 
a  great  English  school,  and  one  of  the  English  universi- 
ties, and  had  afterwards  been  detained  for  many  of  the 
best  and  most  critical  years  of  his  life  at  Verdun.  That 
system  of  education.,  which  has  formed  so  many  good  and 
great  men,  had  to  him  been  productive  of  nothing  but 
evil.  His  fine  talents  had  either  lain  wilfully  neglected, 
or  grossly  misapplied  —  his  passions  had  run  riot  in  early 
indulgence  —  and,  before  he  left  England,  he  had  formed 
wild,  irregular,  and  disorderly  habits,  which  his  long  resi- 
dence in  France  had  confirmed.  It  was  not  possible 
now,  either  to  himself  or  others,  to  understand  what  was 
his  natural  character,  it  was  so  overlaid  with  foreign  ac- 
complishments, follies,  and  vices.  His,  however,  had 
seemed  to  be  the  very  worst  kind  of  selfishness — that 
whicli  enjoys  nothing  intensely,  unless  there  be  about  it 
something  vicious  or  unlawful ;  and  with  all  that  cheerful 
laughter  and  airy  demeanor,  that  to  heedless  observation 
betokened  only  good  humor  and  generosity,  Henry  Cran- 
stoun had  always  an  eye  to  his  own  gratifications,  and 
would  greedily  grasp  them  to  the  sacrifice  of  every  just 
and  humane  principle.  But  then  he  was  in  the  prime  of 
life — extremely  handsome  —  skilled  in  almost  every  art 


THE    FORESTERS.  257 

of  insinuation  and  allurement — master  of  all  the  modern 
lanijuages  of  Europe  —  a  consummate  musician,  for  music 
\v<is  an  art  he  might  be  said  to  have  inherited  —  of  an  old 
family  —  and  with  a  princely  fortune. 

It  is  surprising  what  a  quick  and  true  perception  of  the 
moral  character  of  their  superiors  is  often  possessed  by 
people  in  the  lowliest  conditions.  They  may  make  grer.t 
mistakes  as  to  manners,  acquirements,  and  intellectual 
capacity;  but,  with  regard  to  the  essentials  of  worth, 
their  opinions  are  generally  right.  Virtue  breathes  with- 
out disguise  —  speaks  openly^ and  appears  forth  clearly 
before  men,  even  in  the  most  retiring  of  unostentatious 
characters.  Its  lustre  cannot  be  hidden.  If  it  shine  not 
like  a  star,  it  will  glimmer  like  a  lighted  window.  Intel- 
lect often  works  in  a  sphere  of  which  common  men  know 
nothing,  not  even  its  existence ;  and  the  famous  genius 
may  seem  to  them  a  recluse,  ignorant  of  the  world,  and 
all  its  concerns.  But  if  there  be  great  vices  in  a  man's 
character,  let  his  rank  or  riches  be  what  they  may,  they 
will  be  reprobated  by  the  honest  poor  in  their  huts.  Out- 
ward respect  may  still  be  shewn  —  for  that  is  due  to  their 
station  ;  and  the  peasant,  shepherd,  or  hind,  may,  with- 
out reproach  of  conscience,  unbonnet  to  his  worthless 
landlord.  But  all  his  most  courteous  smiles,  and  words, 
and  acts,  within  the  doors  of  their  huts,  or  the  gates  of 
his  own  halls,  will  never  purchase  for  such  a  man  the 
smallest  portion  of  genuine  esteem.  His  entrance  into 
humble  households  will  be  regarded  with  suspicion  ;  and 
fathers  and  mothers  will  pray  that  their  porch  may  be 
unvisited  by  him,  who  knows  not  the  value,  and  feels  not 
the  sanctity,  of  iimocence. 

Henry  Cranstoun  had  not  been  many  weeks  at  the 
Hirst,  till  he  had  become  the  object  of  such  disturbed  find 
disproving  feelings  and  judgments,  very  widely  over  the 
whole  parish.  He  seemed  either  totally  ignorant  of  the 
character  of  the  peasantry  on  his  estate,  or  insensible  to 
its  excellence.  It  was  not  a  little  rudeness,  folly,  error, 
or  even  apparent  vice  itself,  that  could  have  wholly  alien- 
ated from  the  heir  of  an  old  house  the  affections  of  an 
oo* 


258  THE    FORESTERS. 

intelligent  and  virtuous  tenantry ;  but  this  infatuated 
young  man  seemed  to  have  even  a  pleasure  in  insulting 
their  holiest  habits  and  deepest  natural  emotions.  The 
Sabbaths  at  the  Hirst  were  now  disturbed  with  the  noise 
of  revelry,  that  had  been  heard  by  whole  families  walking 
through  the  woods  to  the  house  of  God ;  and,  to  the  hor- 
ror of  the  yet  simple  dwellers  in  the  parish  of  Holylee, 
cards,  and  dice,  and  other  hideous  gambling,  were,  ac- 
cording to  rumor,  rife  there,  even  on  the  Lord's  day. 
Servants,  with  more  even  than  their  master's  reckless 
vices,  and  a  pride  almost  equal  to  the  debasement  of  their 
ignorance,  and  the  shocking  brutality  of  their  manners, 
swarmed  about  the  old  venerable  Hirst;  and  some  part 
of  the  indignation  and  scorn,  which  the  behavior  of  these 
tyrannical  slaves,  at  the  houses  of  poor  men,  had  far  and 
near  excited,  could  not  but  fall  upon  him,  who  could  not 
only  endure  their  presence,  but  whose  life  seemed  even 
to  depend  for  many  of  its  enjoyments  on  their  base  ser- 
vilities and  unprincipled  cruelty.  "  There  is  nothing 
Scottish  about  him  or  his,"  was  the  bitter  expression  of 
many  a  father  and  mother's  heart.  "God  grant  the  time 
be  not  far  when  he  and  his  outlandish  counts  and  valets 
disappear  from  Holylee  1  " 

Emma  Cranstoun  conducted  herself  towards  her  bro- 
ther in  the  way  that  might  have  been  expected  from  so 
nearly  perfect  a  character.  She  soon  saw,  with  the  deep- 
est grief,  that  she  must  not  hope  to  work  any  great  change 
upon  him,  in  less  time  than  years  upon  years  ;  for  his  bad 
principles  were  rooted  in  a  strong  understanding,  and  his 
evil  practice  had  made  his  heart  callous.  She  endeavor- 
ed to  make  him  comprehend  the  character  of  the  people, 
by  opening  up  to  him  some  of  their  home  habits;  and 
she  did  not  even  scruple  to  beseech  him  to  respect  their 
prejudices;  for,  had  she  called  their  reverence  of  all  reli- 
gious institutions  by  its  true  and  high  name,  she  would 
only  have  been  more  strongly  exciting  his  ridicule  or  con- 
tempt. With  bitterest  tears  of  shame  and  grief,  she  be- 
f'.eeched  him  to  remember  that  their  innocence  was  the 
sole  portion  of  the  females  of  the  poor  man's  family. 
"  O  brother  !   as  you  respect  the  purity  of  me,  your  sister. 


THE    FORESTERS.  259 

and  would,  I  verily  believe,  rather  see  me  dead  than  dis- 
iionored,  respect,  for  my  sake,  the  purity  of  the  harmless 
creatures,  whose  forefathers  have  even  lived  for  genera- 
tions on  this  estate.  They  have  a  hereditary  claim  to 
your  protection  ;  and,  methinks,  that  were  any  infamy  to 
come  to  them  from  yourself,  or  those  whom  you  have 
chosen  to  be  your  friends,  that  I  could  not  bear  to  look 
at  these  pictures  of  our  blameless  ancestors.  See  what 
venerable  sweetness  is  on  the  face  of  Alice  the  Lovely, 
whose  burial  was  a  hundred  years  ago!  But  look  —  look 
here,  my  dear  brother,  this  is  the  picture  of  our  own 
sainted  mother!"  And  Emma  drew  aside  a  black  silk 
curtain,  that  shaded  from  the  light  a  face  drawn  in  cray- 
ons, which  beamed  with  a  mingled  dignity  and  gentleness, 
not  easily  to  be  gazed  on,  now  that  their  mother  was  in 
her  tomb,  without  an  emotion  that,  in  its  mournfulness, 
was  akin  to  virtue. 

To  all  these  gentle  and  affectionate  remonstrances  of 
Emma  Cranstoun,  her  brother  was  not  altogether  insen- 
sible;  and  however  unapparent  their  influence  had  yet 
been  on  the  general  tenor  of  his  conduct,  they  had  at 
least  awakened  in  his  heart  both  a  finer  and  a  stronger 
feeling  of  affection  for  his  mild  and  persuasive  instruc- 
tress. Perhaps  he  had  hitherto  loved  his  sister  more  on 
account  of  the  pride  he  felt  in  her  great  beauty  and  ac- 
complishments, which  -had  burst  suddenly  upon  him  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  her  since  a  child  that  summer  in 
Rome,  than  for  the  sake  of  her  better  worth  ;  but  now 
he  felt  the  holy  charm  of  virtue  when  seen  shining  forth 
in  one  by  nature  necessarily  so  dear  to  him;  and,  in  the 
midst  of  his  own  reckless  profligacy,  he  paid  it  an  unac- 
cepted and  unavailing  homage.  Emma  endured  the  dis- 
turbed and  disreputable  life  he  had  introduced  into  that 
once  peaceful  hall,  as  long  as  she  could  do  so  with  any 
propriety  ;  but  her  sense  of  duty  and  dignity  at  length 
overcame  every  other  consideration,  and  she  formed  the 
resolution  of  leaving  the  Hirst  for  a  season,  and  going 
with  Mrs.  Ramsay  to  the  seat  of  one  of  her  father's  oldest 
friends,  who  would  probably  understand  the  reason  of  her 
offered  visit.  ^^ 


'260  THE    FORESTERS. 

The  character  of  young  Cranstoun  was  nowhere  better 
understood  than  at  Bracken  Braes  ;  and  Michael,  Agnes, 
and  Isobel,  had,  one  and  all  of  them,  cautioned  Lucy  to 
avoid  at  all  times  the  slightest  approach  on  his  part  to 
her  company,  at  least  when  alone,  either  at  the  Hirst,  in 
any  of  the  valleys,  or  at  iheir  own  house,  which  he  had 
been  much  fonder  of  visiting  lately  than  was  agreeable  to 
any  one  within  its  walls.  This  caution  was  not  given  in 
any  doubt  of  his  daughter,  but  to  prevent  the  possibility 
of  any  unknown  evil  coming  from  that  quarter.  Lucy 
did  not  need  any  such  warning,  for  she  knew  too  well 
her  own  danger,  or  rather  she  knew  what  anger,  and 
misery,  and  disturbance  of  spirit  there  would  be  at  Brack- 
en Braes,  if  her  father  had  been  aware  of  Mr.  Cranstoun's 
repeated  attempts  to  gain  upon  her  vanity,  her  simplicity, 
her  ignorance,  or  her  weakness  —  and  Lucy  was  willing 
enough  to  confess,  that  all  these  might  belong  to  her 
character. 

His  sole  desire  and  determination,  since  Henry  Cran- 
stoun had  first  seen  Lucy  Forester,  was  to  get  her  into 
his  power,  and  carry  her  off  with  him  to  the  Continent. 
What  was  she  but  a  peasant's  daughter?  Her  father,  to 
be  sure,  was  a  man  far  beyond  the  common  run  —  and  he 
was  also  a  blind  man,  who  would  sorely  miss  the  child 
heard  for  so  many  years  in  his  darkness.  Lucy  was  like- 
wise, humbly  born  as  she  was,  his  own  sister's  bosom 
friend;  and  her  kindness,  it  was  said,  had  even  saved 
Emma's  life.  She  was  also  a  perfectly  happy  creature  ; 
and  to  destroy  great  human  happiness,  requires  a  cold,  or 
a  stern,  or  a  fierce  heart.  But  then  she  was  beautiful  — 
ay,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  not  less  innocent  —  and  his 
heart,  which  had  so  long  been  the  victim,  the  slave  of 
passion,  beat,  and  leaped,  and  bounded  at  the  forethought 
of  all  that  angelical  beauty  and  innocence  being  prest  in 
transport  to  his  bosom,  although  afterwards  might  come 
shame,  sorrow,  despair,  and  death. 

Had  Lucy  known  all  that  the  heart  of  Henry  Cranstoun 
had  planned  against  her,  sooner  would  the  small  singing- 
bird  have  left  the  hawthorn  hedge  when  it  saw  the  merlin 
on  the  wins,  than  she  have  forsaken  for  an  hour  the  shel- 

♦ 


THE    FORESTERS.  261 

ter  of  Bracken  Braes.  But  innocence  suspects  not,  nor 
if  it  did,  could  penetrate  into  the  dark  secrets  of  that 
heart  from  which  pity,  and  honor,  and  religion  are  all 
flung  aside;  and  nothing  heard,  felt,  or  obeyed,  but  the 
cry  of  passion,  unresisted  in  its  long  career  and  conquest 
of  crime  and  misery. 

Henry  Cranstoun  had  had  his  spies  and  emissaries  at 
watch  and  at  work  through  all  the  parish.  He  knew 
every  step  that  Lucy  took  half  a  mile  from  Bracken  Braes. 
Did  siie  go  to  Raeshaw,  to  Ladyside,  to  the  Manse,  to 
Ewebank,  to  any  hut  without  even  a  name,  her  visit,  if 
one  that  had  been  previously  intended,  was  already  known 
to  him  at  the  Hirst.  He  had  sometimes  been  at  her  side 
among  the  braes,  as  if  he  had  risen  out  of  the  earth,  and 
had  come  carelessly  and  accidentally  into  the  solitary 
dwellings  where  Lucy  perhaps  had  gone  to  see  some  sick 
or  dying  person,  or  to  offer  some  charitable  office  to  the 
poor.  He  stood  not  in  awe  of  that  God  whose  servant 
the  young,  the  humble,  innocent,  and  happy  creature  was 
upon  those  affecting  occasions  ;  and  he  would  have  ruined 
the  soul  of  her  whom  he  might  have  beheld  kneeling  in 
prayer  by  the  sick-beds  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan,  or 
gliding  home  to  her  blind  father's  dwelling  with  a  song 
that  cheered  the  solitary  braes,  and  seemed  to  leave  its 
music  in  the  wild  moors.  Her  innocence,  he  saw,  could 
never  be  corrupted  —  but  it  might  be  betrayed  ;  and  were 
Lucy  Forester  away  with  him  into  another  country  — 
away  beyond  the  seas  —  cut  off  from  Bracken  Braes  by 
hundreds  of  leagues  of  land  and  seas,  with  all  their  moun- 
tains and  waves,  might  she  not  perhaps  become  his  in 
her  homeless,  hopeless  destitution  and  despair,  and  might 
not  his  joy,  his  happiness,  his  bliss  be  perfect  at  last  in 
that  sacrifice  ? 

But,  Emma  Cranstouxi,  although  she  had  never  breath- 
ed a  syllable  of  her  suspicions  to  her  brother,  had  been, 
for  some  time,  more  unhappy  and  afraid  even  than  Lucy 
herself,  of  his  wicked  designs.  Indeed,  it  was  her  mis- 
erable conviction  of  some  meditated  evil,  too  dreadful 
even  to  be  alluded  to,  that  finally  determined  her  to  leave 
the  Hirst,  and  to  take  Lucy  with  her  to  BallendeaqA  Mi- 


262  THE    FORESTEUS. 

chael  and  Agnes,  although  ahnost  daily  expecting  a  visit 
from  Miles  Colinson,  did  not  think  of  making  any  objec- 
tions to  this  plan,  linder  circumstances  which  they  i'ully 
understood,  witlioiit  putting  that  lady  under  any  necessity 
of  entering  into  any  lengthened  explanation;  so  it  was 
fixed  that  Emma  Cranstoun  was  to  send  over  a  servant 
for  Lucy  next  evening,  and  that  she  should  accompany 
herself  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  to  Ballendean,  where  they 
would  remain  till  her  brother  and  his  companions  left  the 
Hirst. 


CHAPTER     XLVI. 

Lucy  had  left  Bracken  Braes  in  the  evening,  on  Emma 
Cranstoun's  own  palfrey,  under  care  of  a  servant ;  and 
Mary  Morrison  had  tripped  on  foot  by  her  side,  as  far  as 
the  well-known  Gowan  Green.  There  she  had  parted 
from  her  friend  with  a  kiss,  and  kept  her  eyes  upon  her 
till  she  saw  the  horses  following  the  bridle  road  towards 
Ewebank.  "  Ay,  ay  !"  said  Mary  to  herself,  "Lucy  is 
just  going  round  by  the  house  where  I  used  to  live,  to 
take  a  look  at  the  sweet  birchwood,  where  we  have  so 
often  sat  together,  in  days  when  1  was  as  happy  and  as 
innocent  as  herself!  "  —  and  then  returned  to  the  Heriot 
Water. 

Michael  never  slept  very  soundly  when  Lucy  was  from 
home;  and  he  now  rose  in  the  gloaming,  before  the  sun 
had  shone  his  disk  over  Raven  Crag,  or  awakened  a  bird 
in  the  eaves  or  the  plane  tree.  It  was  the  dawn  of  the 
12th  of  August;  and  no  sooner  had  the  light  broken, 
than  the  frequent  gun  of  the  fowler  was  heard  on  the 
hills.  A  foot  came  up  the  avenue,  and  a  voice  said  — 
"  Mr.  Forester,  here  is  a  letter  from  the  Hirst."  Michael 
took  it  to  Agnes.  It  was  from  the  lady  herself;  and  ex- 
pressed much  surprise  that  Lucy  Forester  had  not,  ac- 
cordji^  to  agreement,  come  to  the   Hirst ;  with  tender 


THE    FORESTERS.  263 

inquiries  as  to  the  cause  of  her  not  appearing  —  which, 
she  trusted,  was  not  ilhiess,  either  of  herself  or  any  one 
at  Bracken  Braes. 

Every  inmate  was  soon  up;  and  a  dire  and  dismal 
distraction,  in  which  reason  itself  was  baffled,  prevailed 
over  the  whole  family.  Their  fears  all  connected  them- 
selves with  Henry  Cranstoun  ;  but  nobody  yet  expressed 
them,  till  Michael  himself  said  —  "  Let  us  trust  in  that 
God  who  has  never  yet  forsaken  us,  and  whose  provi- 
dence, although  often  inscrutable,  will  not  suffer  our 
child  to  be  destroyed  !  "  But  every  minute  brought  its 
own  horrid  thought  ;  and  there  was  an  uncertain  and 
hurried  walking  about,  as  if  the  tenement  had  been  on 
fire. 

Mary  Morrison,  who  had  gone  out  to  speak  with  the 
person  who  had  brought  the  letter,  came  back  with  a 
quick  pace  to  the  room,  and  said  —  "  Here  is  Mr.  Miles 
Colinson  —  here  is  Mr.  Miles   Colinson!"  Aunt  Isobel 

—  for  Michael  and  Agnes  were  sitting  in  a  sort  of  stupor 

—  went  and  brought  him  in,  after  telling  him,  in  a  few 
words,  at  what  crisis  he  had  arrived.  "  You  have  come 
to  us  just  when  we  have  lost  our  Lucy,  Mr.  Colinson.  A 
villain  has  taken  her  from  us  —  from  Agnes  there,  and 
me,  her  blind  father  ;  and  dreadful  are  the  decrees  of  the 
Most  Merciful  and  the  Most  High!  " 

It  seemed  that  nothing  was  in  their  power  to  do,  any 
more  than  if  they  had  all  been  chained  in  a  dungeon. 
Into  what  quarter  of  the  horizon  should  the  pursuers  go? 
Hours  —  hours  —  many  long  hours  had  there  been  —  a 
whole  night  of  hours  —  since  Lucy  had  fallen  into  the 
fatal  snare.  As  well  go  seek  for  a  dropped  pearl  from 
the  hair,  over  the  bounds  of  a  great  forest,  as  seek  for 
Lucy  Forester  now  among  all  those  mountains !  The 
light  of  morn  must  have  found  her  far  —  far  off  from 
Bracken  Braes;  or  perhaps  the  light  of  morn  may  not 
yet  have  visited  her  weeping  eyes  in  some  dark  den, 
known  only  to  that  pitiless  Atheist. 

Perhaps  Miles  Colinson  was  now  a  more  miserable 
man  even  than  Michael  Forester.  He  had  come  to  woo 
his  bride  in   her  f;i(her's  house ;  and,  lo  !  she  had  been 


264  THE    FORESTERS. 

carried  off  by  a  ravisher.  Yet,  wicked  as  the  world  is, 
there  are  bounds,  he  thought  and  said,  set  to  wickedness, 
which  even  a  demon  from  below  could  not  have  power  to 
overleap ;  and  a  hope  came,  even  from  his  being  the 
brother  of  Emma  Cranstoun,  that  Lucy  might  find  mercy 
at  his  hands.  They  all  knew  that  Lucy  would  walk  into 
a  burial  vault,  and  be  left  there  to  die  of  hunger,  rather 
than  break  one  of  God's  commandments.  A  sort  of  wild 
joy  was  in  Michael's  broken  voice,  as  he  cried  out  —  "O 
that  she  had  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  she  might  come 
flying  back  to  her  blind  father  !  "  —  "  Fear  it  not,  fear  it 
not,"  said  Aunt  Isobel  — now  too  old  to  weep,  but  whose 
hope  was  strong  as  possession,  both  of  this  world  and  the 
world  beyond  the  grave  —  "safe  is  she  at  this  hour, 
wherever  she  be,  as  the  youths  in  the  fiery  furnace ;  nor 
shall  a  hair  of  her  head  be  skaithed." 

Mary  Morrison  now  mentioned  that  Lucy  had  left  the 
direct  road  to  the  Hirst,  and  had  gope  up  the  brae  to- 
wards Ewebank.  A  sort  of  light  glimmered  in  upon 
Michael's  mind.  As  Ewebank  was  a  very  lonely  place, 
it  was  possible  that  his  daughter  had  been  wiled  away 
thither  by  some  pretence;  and  he  called  to  mind,  too, 
that  it  was  now  inhabited  by  a  person  of  no  very  good 
character,  who  hung  loose  on  society,  and  did  not  follow 
any  regular  profession.  Such  place,  and  such  person, 
seemed  well  fitted  for  the  nefarious  wickedness  he  feared  ; 
and  the  blind  man,  taking  his  staff,  requested  Miles  Col- 
inson  to  accompany  him  to  Ewebank. 

When  they  reached  that  solitary  house,  no  smoke  came 
from  the  chimney,  and  nothing  was  stirring  about  it  any 
more  than  if  it  had  been  uninhabited.  The  door  was 
locked,  the  window-shutters  closed,  or  rather  the  light 
excluded  by  boards,  and  branches  of  broom  and  fern. 
Miles  Colinson  heard  nothing  ;  but  Michael  said  — 
"  There  are  people  in  the  house  :  I  hear  footsteps  and 
whispering."  No  answer  being  given  to  their  words, 
Michael  Forester  put  his  hand  and  foot  to  the  door,  and 
it  flew  open  like  that  of  a  childish  plaything.  Wat  Arm- 
strong met  him  in  the  passage  with  a  fierce  countenance  ; 
but  Miles  Colinson  was  not  a  man  to  be  intimidated,  and 


THE    FORESTERS.  265 

Stepped  forward  between  the  blind  rfian  and  his  opponent. 
"  Is  the  tenant  of  this  house  at  home?"  said  Michael; 
"and  if  so,  why  has  he  barricaded  his  door?"  It  was 
too  late  to  offer  resistance  to  the  resolute  blind  man  and 
his  friend;  for  Lucy  had  heard  their  voices,  and  was 
already  in  her  father's  arms.  There  too  was  Henry 
Cranstoun,  the  representative  of  an  ancient  and  honorable 
family,  standing  like  a  condemned  felon,  in  a  clay-built 
hut,  on  his  own  hereditary  estate. 

Lucy  Forester's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping — her 
cheeks  dim  in  the  rosy  beauty  which  no  agony  could  alto- 
gether blanch  —  and  her  silken  hair,  which  almost  one 
single  touch  of  her  hand  could  trick  into  graceful  wreaths, 
sorely  dishevelled.  But  now  there  was  perfect  restora- 
tion brought  to  her  disturbed  spirit  —  her  kindling  smiles 
revived;  and,  kneeling  down,  she  gave  thanks  to  the 
Great  Power  that  had  protected  her  innocence.  "  I 
offered  no  violence  to  your  daughter,  Mr.  Forester  —  I 
loved  her,  and  I  repent  of  my  gross  misconduct.  What 
more  can  I  do  ?  —  Tell  what  amends  I  can  make.  The 
best  farm  on  the  estate  will  be  yours,  rent  free."  —  "  Base 
robber,  speak  not  to  me  of  farms  and  rents  —  the  dead 
ground,  and  the  worthless  dross;  but  look  into  my  face 
—  behold  how  God  has  been  pleased  to  extinguish  these 
eyes  within  their  sockets,  and  then  tremble  lest  his  ven- 
geance smite  you  dead  in  your  sins.  Lucy,  my  beloved 
child,  rise  up  —  rise  up  ;  "  for  Michael  felt  her  clasped 
hands  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  tears  of  thankfulness 
fell  down  upon  her  forehead,  as  her  eyes,  that  had  just 
been  turned  to  heaven,  now  calmly  contemplated  her  fa- 
ther's countenance.  Miles  Colinson  gazed  on  that  sight, 
and  so  received  it  into  his  very  soul,  that  fade  away  would 
it  never  more  till  the  last  hour  of  his  life.  But  the  be- 
trayer could  not  endure  the  scene  before  him,  and  disap- 
peared. 

Rescued  from  that  horror,  Lucy  looked  on  Miles  Col- 
inson as  her  deliverer.     He  it  was  that  now  raised  her  in 
his  arms  from  the  floor,  and  felt  privileged,  in  her  father's 
presence,  to  press  her  to  his  bosom.     There  was  no  one 
23 


266  THE    FORESTERS. 

in  the  hut  but  themselves,  the  storm  was  over,  and  there 
was  now  almost  a  perfect  cahn ;  nor  was  Lucy  released 
from  that  gentle  embrace,  till  she  heard  an  earnest  prayer 
breathed  close  to  her  cheek,  that  Heaven  would  inspire 
her  heart  with  affection,  and  grant  such  a  wife  to  one 
who  would  cherish  and  guard  her  like  a  sacred  thing. 
That  prayer  was  not  unheard  by  the  blind  man ;  and  he 
blessed  them  both,  as  they  stood  together  by  his  side,  and 
called  them  by  one  name  —  "  My  children  !  " 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

Michael  Forester  would  have  spared  him  who  had 
wickedly  designed  to  rob  him  of  his  all,  the  shame  of  ex- 
posure ;  but  rumors  soon  ran  from  house  to  house  among 
the  braes,  like  echoes ;  and,  before  night,  the  whole  parish 
was  stirred  with  indignant  reprobation.  Such  profligacy 
appalled  every  parent  —  the  rescue  of  the  innocent  came 
home  to  every  heart ;  and  here,  there  was  not  a  single 
circumstance  of  extenuation  —  on  the  contrary,  all  was 
hideously  and  impiously  cruel.  Will  Michael  Forester 
continue  to  live,  after  such  an  outrage,  at  Bracken  Braes? 
Ought  not  punishment  to  be  inflicted  on  the  criminal  ? 
Such  thoughts  were  at  every  fireside ;  and  he,  who  could 
so  easily  have  had  his  name  pronounced  with  constant 
blessings,  was  now  cursed  as  an  evil  spirit  that  had  come 
to  ruin  the  peace  of  families,  and  to  spread  corruption 
over  the  whole  country  side. 

Next  morning  was  the  Sabbath,  and  the  family  from 
Bracken  Braes  went,  as  usual,  to  the  place  of  worship. 
In  the  kirkyard,  one  subject  alone  was  spoken  of  among 
the  various  groups  assembled  there  ;  and  when  Mr.  For- 
ester appeared,  walking  between  his  wife  and  daughter, 
although  no  one  alluded,  in  the  most  distant  way,  to  the 
events  of  the  preceding  day,  the  salutations  they  received 


THE    FORESTERS,  26'j' 

from  every  quarter  were  most  earnest,  and  sufficiently 
expressed  the  general  sympathy.  There,  too,  was  the 
Lady  of  the  Hirst,  evidently  looking  around  for  one  family. 
She  soon  discovered  Lucy,  and,  putting  her  arm  within 
her's,  she  took  her  up  to  her  own  seat  in  the  gallery. 
The  eyes  of  the  whole  congregation  approved  ;  and  Mr. 
Kennedy  himself  gave  Lucy  a  look  of  kind  recognition 
from  the  pulpit. 

As  the  congregation  was  dismissing,  words  of  shocking 
import  spread  from  one  person  to  another,  till  there  was 
a  general  consternation.  The  lady's  brother  had  been 
found,  during  the  very  time  Divine  worship  had  been  per- 
forming, lying  in  a  lonesome  place  within  the  Hirst  woods, 
mortally  wounded.  It  was  rumored  that  there  had  been 
a  duel,  and  that  all  the  gentlemen  residing  at  the  hall  had 
fled.  Emma  Cranstoun's  ears  could  not  but  receive  the 
fatal  tidings,  even  before  she  had  left  her  seat  in  the  kirk, 
and  while  she  was  whispering  in  a  low  voice  to  Lucy 
about  the  unhappy  man  now  dying  or  dead. 

Before  evening,  Michael,  Agnes,  and  Lucy,  were  all 
three  at  the  Hirst.  The  lady  had  indeed  need  of  comfort 
now,  for  her  brother's  eyes  were  shut  for  ever  —  his  ca- 
reer of  guilt  at  an  end — without  more  than  a  few  —  a 
very  few  agonized,  or  fainting  hours,  for  repentance. 
Two  strangers  had  that  morning  come  to  the  Hirst,  and 
they  had  again  left  it,  but  not  till,  from  the  hand  of  one 
of  them,  Henry  Cranstoun  had  received  his  death  wound. 
Emma  had  not  even  the  melancholy  comfort  to  know  that 
his  fate  had  been  undeserved  ;  for,  almost  his  last  words 
were  to  say,  that  Captain  Lorimer  had  behaved  like  a  man 
of  honor,  and  that  he  had  justly  punished  with  death  his 
sister's  seducer. 

The  feelings  which  now  wrung  Emma  Cranstoun's 
heart  were  not  those  of  grief  and  pity  alone,  but  of  a  more 
awful  and  overwhelming  nature.  Till  within  these  very 
few  months,  she  had  never  been  with  her  brother,  except 
that  one  week  at  Rome.  But  natural  affection  does  not 
wait  even  for  worth  to  awaken  it ;  and  her  heart  had 
yearned  towards  him  in  the  midst  of  those  vices  which  it 


268  THE    FORESTERS. 

bled  to  think  of,  and  would  have  died  to  cure.  Not  a 
pleasing,  or  fine,  or  good  trait  in  his  character,  but  she 
had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  it  alone,  with  the  loving  hope  of 
being  able  to  exaggerate  it  into  a  virtue.  But  now,  there 
he  lay,  with  all  that  once  ardent  blood,  cold  as  the  frozen 
stream  —  that  face,  whose  changeful  features  kindled 
every  hour  with  the  expression  of  so  many  passions,  had 
now  but  one  meaning  —  rest,  eternal  rest !  The  soul  — 
the  immortal  soul  —  had  gone  to  judgment ;  and  even  in 
the  Book  of  Mercy  are  there  not  dreadful  images  of  the 
world  to  come  1 

The  Lady  of  the  Hirst  had  many  friends  in  her  own 
rank  of  life,  for  she  never  had  had  any  wish  to  seclude 
herself  from  society,  which  she  both  enjoyed  and  adorned  ; 
and  in  this  great  distress  there  were  more  than  one  whose 
presence  would  have  been  a  comfort.  But  during  the 
first  days  of  death,  the  house  stands  silent  ;  and  dearest 
friends  do  not  feel  privileged  to  look  on  the  mourner's 
face  till  the  final  ceremony  is  over,  and  all  vanished. 
Lucy  Forester,  however,  remained  on  that  Sabbath  even- 
ing when  the  others  went  away,  and  for  several  nights 
occupied  the  bed  where  she  had  so  often  lain  whole  nights 
without  sleeping  when  it  was  thought  the  lady  was  dying 
of  a  consumption  ;  and  her  presence  was  again  a  greater 
blessing  than  could  be  told,  during  the  midnight  hours, 
when  grief  comes  upon  the  very'  dreams  of  those  who 
weep. 

There  was  a  burial  place  about  half  a  mile  from  the 
hall,  in  an  old  wood ;  an  open  space  had  been  left,  cen- 
turies ago,  when  the  acorns  were  planted,  and  in  it  a 
mausoleum  had  been  built.  The  arms  of  the  oaks  had 
extended  farther,  perhaps,  than  had  been  contemplated, 
and  one  enormous  tree  flung  a  mossy  limb  across  the 
melancholy  lawn,  quite  close  to  the  gateway  of  the  tomb. 
All  about  the  dark  walls  were  yews  that  shrouded  it  in 
perpetual  gloom ;  and  the  sound  of  a  stream,  flowing  in 
the  forest,  might  sometimes  be  heard,  and  sometimes  not, 
by  any  solitary  person  wandering  into  that  stern  seclusion. 
The  martins  built  their  nests  in  crevices  of  the  somewhat 


THE    FORESTERS.  260 

dilapidated  building;  and  the  roes,  knowing  how  unfre- 
quented was  the  place,  harbored  below  that  grove,  and 
among  its  surrounding  thickets. 

The  whole  tenantry  followed  the  bier  to  this  burial- 
place  ;  the  iron  gate  once  more  recoiled  on  its  rusty  hin- 
ges, and  the  remains  of  Henry  Cranstoun  were  left  to 
moulder  away  among  the  bones  of  his  ancestors.  All  re- 
proachful thoughts  were  dead.  Had  he  lived,  he  might 
have  become  a  better  —  a  good  man  —  even  a  Christian  ; 
for  what  revolutions  have  taken  place  in  those  spiritual 
kingdoms,  the  souls  of  men  ;  and  with  these,  and  such 
reflections,  silent  or  expressed,  the  funeral  party  dissolved 
away  among  the  woods. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

Lucy  remained  for  a  week  after  the  funeral  with  Emma 
Cranstoun  ;  nor  did  one  strong  wish  to  be  at  Bracken 
Braes,  notwithstanding  the  presence  thereof  one  so  dear, 
enter  a  heart  so  filled  as  her's  was  with  pity  and  friend- 
ship. The  rueful  calamity  was  such  as  to  hinder,  during 
its  first  dark  days,  the  movement  of  all  deep  feelings  on 
any  other  subject ;  and  although  there  were,  in  both  their 
breasts,  feelings  so  very  deep  as  never  again  to  be  obliter- 
ated, yet  the  images  of  Edward  Ellis  and  Miles  Colinson 
either  did  not  rise  up  before  them  at  all,  or  if  they  did, 
each  image  was  contemplated  with  perfect  freedom  from 
any  agitating  emotion,  by  her  to  whom  it  was  more  es- 
pecially interesting;  for  in  such  hearts  as  theirs,  love, 
instead  of  swallowing  up  in  its  own  passionate  selfishness 
every  other  feeling,  strengthens  and  purifies  them,  lend- 
ing to  them  all  much  of  its  own  enthusiastic  and  spiritual 
nature.  At  the  end  of  a  week,  Lucy  returned  to  Bracken 
Braes. 

Almost  unconsciously  had  these  lovers  been  betrothed ; 
23* 


270  THE    FORESTERS. 

but  on  their  very  first  meeting,  they  remembered  that  the 
betrothment  had  received  the  fervent  blessings  of  their 
father.  Few  words  had  been  uttered  at  that  disturbed 
time,  but  these  few  bound  their  hearts  for  life  with  all 
the  sanctity  of  an  oath,  felt  to  be  inviolable.  Little  or  no 
agitating  passion  had  preceded  their  declarations  of  ever- 
lasting attachment  —  indeed,  with  Lucy,  the  charm  of  her 
love  to  her  own  spirit  was  its  perfect  peace.  Since  last 
summer,  when  her  lover  began  first  to  be  dear,  she  had 
been  carried  away  down  the  quiet  hours  imperceptibly 
into  the  final  calm  of  their  affection —  as  a  boat,  in  which 
two  friends  are  sitting,  may  drift  away  down  the  dream- 
like scenery  of  some  river,  till  it  is  found  anchored  in  a 
beautiful  lake. 

All  their  roamings,  last  summer,  over  the  braes,  and 
through  the  woods,  had  been  as  happy  as  ihey  had  then 
desired  life  to  be  ;  but  the  earth  was  now  greener  to  their 
eyes,  and  the  heaven  bright  even  without  its  sunshine. 
Then,  their  parties  had  been  larger  —  for  Ruth,  and 
Mary  Morrison,  and  Martha,  were  generally  there  ;  and 
the  spirit  that  seemed  chiefly  to  animate  them,  was  the 
natural  gaiety  of  youthful  existence.  But  now  Lucy  and 
Miles  walked  all  alone  into  the  secluded  glens  —  and  all 
alone  reclined  by  the  murmurs  of  the  solitary  rivulets. 
There  was  no  merriment —  no  laughter  —  sometimes  not 
many  words.  Thoughts  and  feelings  often  rose  up  into 
looks  and  smiles ;  and  when  the  lovers  were  mute  in  the 
solitude,  the  silence  was  divine.  Day  after  day  they  felt 
themselves  more  and  more  belonging  exclusively  to  one 
another  —  and  dreams  of  the  future  brought  a  tenderer 
light  upon  the  sunshine  of  their  present  happiness.  "  O 
beautiful  Ellesmere !"  breathed  Lucy  in  a  whisper  to  her 
lover;  and  as  her  head  rested  on  his  bosom,  she  asked 
her  heart  with  a  self-upbraiding  sigh,  if  it  were,  indeed, 
possible  that  hour  had  come  when  she  could  think  of 
leaving  her  blind  father  without  his  Lucy  at  Bracken 
Braes  ! 

The  long-continued  and  habitual  moderation  of  spirit 
belonging  to  Michael  Forester  in  his  resigned  blindness, 
was  scarcely  proof  against  the  intense  happiness  which 


THE    FORESTERS.  271 

rose  from  the  prospect  of  Lucy's  marriage.  Although 
his  daughter  had  been,  from  the  first  day  of  his  loss  of 
sight,  so  necessary  to  him,  that,  without  her  guiding  voice 
and  hand,  he  would,  probably,  never  have  learned  to  ex- 
tend the  circle  of  his  unattended  walks  beyond  the  gate 
of  the  avenue,  and  although  her  presence  in  the  room 
had,  for  years,  been  a  sort  of  sunshine,  which  even  the 
blind  could  see,  yet  Michael  felt,  on  the  present  occasion, 
that  it  had,  all  along,  been  her  happiness  that  was  his 
comfort,  and  that  to  lose  her,  since  that  happiness  was 
about  to  be  increased,  so  far  from  being  any  rational 
cause  of  sorrow,  ought,  and  assuredly  would,  increase 
tenfold  the  gratitude  of  those  left  behind  at  Bracken 
Braes.  The  events  of  the  last  few  days  had  shewn  what 
evils  might  gather  around  her  beauty ;  and  if  her  father 
should  die,  what  might  become  of  Lucy  in  this  bewilder- 
ing world  ?  But  now  there  were  to  be  two  nests  for  the 
dove  ;  and  should  the  winds  injure  or  blow  down  the  one 
at  Bracken  Braes,  the  other  might  still  be  her's  in  the 
sheltered  vale  of  Ellesmere. 

The  same  feelings  possessed  the  maternal  bosom  of  the 
gentle  Agnes.  She  had  never  feared  for  Lucy,  except 
when  she  thought  of  her  somewhat  warm  and  impetuous 
character,  rather  too  apt  to  give  way  to  sudden  emotion, 
and  to  urge  her  forwards  incautiously  at  least,  if  not  im- 
prudently, upon  the  path  her  heart  had  chosen.  Yet  Lucy 
had  never  yielded  to,  or  obeyed  any  strong  impulse,  unless 
it  prompted  to  deeds  of  kindness  and  humanity ;  and  her 
mother  rather  trembled  at  the  possibility  of  her  being  led 
astray,  than  from  the  recollection  of  any  instances  in 
which  her  conduct  could  be  justly  reprehended.  Lucy's 
ardor  and  fearlessness  in  all  innocent  pursuits  —  her  dis- 
position to  revel  in  joy  the  very  instant  she  left  her  blind 
father's  side — her  utter  incapacity  of  suspicion,  or  of 
belief  in  guile  or  wickedness  —  her  quick,  eager  temper, 
whose  anger  was  neither  more  boisterous  nor  permanent 
than  the  breeze  that  comes  rustling  down  the  birch  wood 
and  in  a  minute  forsakes  the  leaves  —  and  her  readiness 
to  sacrifice  anything,  however  sweet  to  herself,  to  the 
more  insignificant  interests  of  her  friends  —  nay,   even 


272  THE    FORESTERS. 

her  acquaintances.  All  these  traits  in  her  character,  at 
once  endearing  to  others,  and  dangerous  to  the  lovely 
creature  herself,  had  often  disturbed  her  mother's  sleep. 
But  under  the  safeguard  of  such  a  husband  as  Miles  Col- 
inson,  all  these  qualities  would  be  sources  of  happiness 
alone  —  time,  instead  of  blighting,  would  beautify  such 
flowers  as  these  —  and  she  could  not  but  be  a  happy  wife 
who  had,  in  the  sight  of  men,  angels,  and  the  Almighty, 
been  the  best  and  most  blessed  of  daughters.  Already 
was  the  expression  of  her  bright  eyes  somewhat  subdued  ; 
her  steps  were  gliding  into  a  slower  gait,  in  its  gentleness 
almost  matronly  ;  the  tears  were  sometimes  seen  on  her 
cheek,  probably  as  she  dreamed  of  leaving  them  all  at 
Bracken  Braes;  and,  in  truth,  Lucy  Forester  sometimes 
already  bore  almost  the  placid,  quiet,  and  thoughtful 
countenance  of  a  bride. 

The  month  of  August  had  gone,  and  the  first  half  of 
the  beautiful  September,  that  seemed  almost  to  court  the 
first  stealing  touches  of  the  frost.  It  was  time  for  Miles 
Colinson  to  return  to  Ellesmere,  and  Lucy  was  contented 
not  to  see  him  again  till  the  following  June.  Why  should 
they  hasten  their  marriage?  Lucy  was  not  yet  eighteen, 
although  she  wanted  but  a  few  months  of  that  age  — 
months  that  could  bring  no  accession  to  her  loveliness, 
although  they  would,  doubtlessly,  bring  knowledge  and 
wisdom  to  a  heart  awakened  to  a  new  and  sacred  passion. 
A  few  months'  longer  possession  of  their  dutiful  child, 
was  something  to  her  father  and  mother ;  and  Lucy,  in 
the  blissful  calm  of  her  aflfection  for  Miles  Colinson, 
could  have  been  happy  so  long  as  he  was  so,  in  years  of 
betrothed  separation.  Next  summer,  then,  they  were  to 
be  married  ;  and  Aunt  Isobel,  who  frequently  spoke  of 
her  own  death  with  as  much  cheerfulness  as  she  could  do 
of  going  to  bed  after  a  busy  day,  said  that  she  would  pray 
to  be  allowed  to  be  present  at  that  wedding,  and  then 
care  not  about  seeing  another  Christmas.  "  The  dear 
bairn  will  be  little  more  than  eighteen  years  old  on  that 
day,  and  I  upwards  of  fourscore  and  five  —  but.  Heaven 
preserve  us  !  what  fine  madam  is  this  at  the  door  ?  Come 
ben,  Miss  or  Mistress  —  how  is  your  lady,  owre  by  yon- 


THE    FORESTERS.  273 

(ler  at  the  hall  ?"  This  fine  madam,  as  Aunt  Isobel  call- 
ed her,  was  Emma  Cranstoun's  Swiss  maid  — a  very  ex- 
cellent, kind  creature,  in  her  way,  although  fond  of  lace, 
veils,  and  feathers,  to  a  degree  that  excited  the  wonder 
of  the  whole  parish.  Her  head,  at  this  particular  time, 
nodded  lugubriously  like  the  plumes  of  a  hearse  ;  although 
her  face  was  all  one  smile,  and  her  gesticulation,  as  she 
gave  Lucy  a  letter,  expressive  of  a  general  delight —  not 
so  much  proceeding  from  any  one  specific  cause,  as  from 
the  vivacity  of  her  own  peculiar  and  national  character. 
The  letter  merely  informed  Lucy  that  the  Lady  of  the 
Hirst  would,  by  the  time  it  was  received,  be  on  her  way 
on  foot,  and  with  a  friend,  by  the  Gowan  Green  path,  to 
Bracken  Braes. 

Lucy  and  Miles  Colinson  immediately  set  out  to  meet 
the  lady  ;  and,  before  they  had  gone  two  miles,  the  par- 
ties were  all  together  in  a  lonesome  nook  among  the  hills 
—  Emma  Cranstoun  and  Edward  Ellis,  Lucy  Forester 
and  Miles  Colinson,  meeting  at  the  Hawk  Stane  Spring! 
Edward  and  Lucy  had  a  dream  of  their  own  ;  and,  after 
the  first  emotion,  it  was  fiir  from  being  undelightful. 
There  they  had  stood,  a  few  years  ago,  as  they  thought, 
as  indeed  they  were  —  in  love  —  the  pure,  imaginative, 
visionary  love  of  youth,  as  yet  equally  ignorant  of  itself 
and  the  world.  There  were  innocent  and  blameless  se- 
crets, that  needed  not  to  be  revealed  to  any  ear  ;  too  dim, 
in  the  distance  of  the  past,  to  be  distinctly  remembered, 
even  by  their  own  hearts ;  too  vague  and  worldless  to  be 
communicated  ;  and,  as  Edward  turned  towards  his  Em- 
ma, and  Lucy  looked  at  Miles  Colinson,  without  any  per- 
ceptible embarrassment,  and  with  sentiments  of  mutual 
admiration  and  esteem  —  they  who  had  journeyed  togeth- 
er over  the  moonlight  hills,  and  almost  slept  in  each 
other's  innocent  arms  —  saluted  each  other  as  friends, 
who  at  last  possessed  the  happiness  appropriate  to  their 
condition,  and  would  remain  friends,  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word,  throughout  life. 


274  THE    FORESTERS. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

Whether  has  the  lover  of  nature's  works  —  the  soli- 
tary pvedestrian,  who  finds  beauty  everywhere  without 
seeking  for  it  —  had  most  delight,  in  his  roaming  reveries 
among  the  pastoral  paradise  of  Scotland,  where  his  ima- 
gination, lending  its  own  light  to  the  scenery  and  the 
people,  has  restored  the  age  of  gold  —  or  among  some  of 
the  richer  valleys  of  merry  England,  where  there  is  little 
need  for  fiction  to  embellish  or  change  the  truth,  but  al- 
most every  human  habitation  is  indeed  a  perfect  picture, 
ready  formed  to  the  eye  of  taste  or  genius  ?  Perhaps 
remembrances  come  in  such  crowds  upon  the  mind,  that 
delights  to  embody  all  its  visions  of  the  past,  that  there  is 
a  confusion  of  feelings,  leaving  no  distinctive  judgment 
of  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  those  two  beautiful 
kingdoms.  Then  too,  for  one  scene  vividly  remerhbered, 
a  hundred  are  well  nigh  forgotten.  Entire  days  —  walks 
by  the  sides  of  lochs  and  rivers,  are  as  if  they  had  never 
been  —  unnumbered  glorious  sunsets  have  been  in  vain 
shewn  to  ungrateful  worshippers  —  cataracts  are  pealing 
in  the  solitude,  once  visited  in  awe,  and  since  heard  no 
more  —  and  the  thunder  storms  that  shook  the  everlasting 
mountains,  have  not  left  in  the  imagination  so  much  as  a 
whisper.  Which  country  then  shall  be  said  to  be  the 
most  impressive  —  and  what  pilgrim  shall  declare  the 
judgment  ? 

But  let  the  decision  of  such  questions  be  left  to  the 
poet  and  the  painter ;  and  let  Agnes,  and  Lucy,  and 
Mary  Morrison,  and  even  old  Aunt  Isobel,  judge  for 
themselves  of  the  comparative  merit  of  Ellesmere  and 
Bracken  Braes.  For  Michael  Forester  and  all  his  fami- 
ly are  at  the  Vicarage;  and  a  brighter,  perhaps  so  bright 
a  June  never  glittered  on  the  lone  banks  of  the  sweet 
Heriot  Water  and  the  braes  of  Holylee,  as  now  glitters 
on  Risedale  Beck,  wherever  its  streams  and  pools  are 
open  to  the  day,  among  meadows  forever  losing  them- 
selves in  the  overshadowincr  woods  of  Ellesmere. 


THE    FORESTERS.  275 

It  was  no  less  than  four  years  ago  since  Agnes  and 
Lucy  were  at  the  Vicarage ;  and  much  as  they  had  then 
loved  and  admired  it,  it  seemed  now  to  them  both  a  place 
whose  delightful  character  they  had  not  in  tlie  least  un- 
derstood. Every  day  gave  them  an  insight  into  the  mean- 
ing of  every  object  they  beheld ;  and  they  discovered,  of 
themselves,  reasons  why  the  beauty  of  the  vale  was  so 
various,  and  never  could  be  injured.  Miles  Colinson 
showed  them  the  very  spirit  of  the  place;  and  Lucy  every 
night  lay  down  with  some  new  charm  mingling  in  the 
scenery  of  her  dreams.  Here  she  was  to  live  —  here 
most  probably  die  —  and  in  the  church-yard  of  the  chapel, 
at  the  foot  of  those  great  mountains,  her  bones  would  be 
laid  along  with  those  of  the  Colinsons,  who  had  been 
dwellers  in  the  vale  of  Ellesmere  for  several  centuries. 
Melancholy  thoughts  often  arise  out  of  our  very  happiest 
hopes,  and  indeed  seem  almost  inseparable  from  them ; 
for  hopes  are  onward  gazing,  and  the  vista  has,  and  can 
have  at  last,  but  one  termination.  But  this  union  of  the 
sweetness  and  the  sadness  of  fancy  is  perhaps  the  most 
blissful  of  all  moods  of  mind ;  and  youthful  lovers  feel  it 
to  be  so,  when  to  their  approaching  happiness  there  seems 
to  be  no  other  alloy,  but  the  knowledge  of  the  frailty  of 
human  nature,  and  of  the  sudden  obscuration  or  eclipse, 
to  which  the  light  of  all  human  happiness  is  everlastingly 
exposed. 

The  lovers  thought  themselves  happy  —  the  happiest 
living  beings  on  all  the  earth;  but  Michael  Forester  and 
his  Agnes  were  far  happier.  The  blind  father  had  always 
been  a  thoughtful,  never  a  melancholy  man  ;  yet  if  all  the 
sad  feelings  that  had  assailed  his  heart  on  Lucy's  account 
for  the  last  seven  or  eight  years  had  been  collected  to- 
gether, they  would  have  made  up  a  great  sum  of  sorrow. 
All  were  now  at  an  end  ;  and  not  only  so,  but  vivid  and 
rejoicing  emotions  took  their  place,  so  that  even  Agnes 
herself,  whose  eyes  had  never  been  off  her  blind  husband's 
countenance  for  one  daylight  hour  together,  since  the 
lightning  had  passed  over  it,  could  not  help  wondering  at 
the  change,  and  felt  as  if  the  same  sedate  cheerfulness  of 
his  manly  beauty,  which  won   her  heart  at  Dovenest  so 


276  THE    FORESTERS. 

long  ago,  had  been  restored.  But  just  as  great  a  change 
had  been  wrought  on  Agnes  herself,  and  Michael  per- 
ceived it  in  her  voice.  Much  of  that  same  glad  tone  re- 
turned to  it,  with  which  she  had  charmed  every  heart  in 
the  years  of  her  maidenhood  —  and  for  years  too  of  her 
wedded  life,  when  Lucy  was  a  mere  sportful  child,  for 
whom  it  was  needless  yet  to  cherish  any  mournful  fears. 
Agnes  Hay  was  indeed  almost  in  the  very  prime  of  life; 
and  Michael  believed  Aunt  Isobel,  when  she  said,  that 
her  child  was  still  as  beautiful  as  the  day  when  she  was 
a  bride. 

The  marriage  day  was  now  near  at  hand  ;  and  there 
was  not  in  all  Westmoreland  a  prettier  cottage  than  the 
one  ready  for  the  reception  of  Miles  Colinson  and  his 
Lucy.  It  had  been  built,  about  two  years  before,  by  the 
vicar's  only  brother,  Mr.  Brathwaite  Colinson,  a  London 
solicitor,  who  had  returned,  rich,  to  pass  his  latter  days 
in  the  quiet  of  his  native  valley.  But  the  old  gentleman 
felt  Oldfield  to  be  somewhat  too  dull  and  lonely  for  one 
of  his  metropolitan  habits,  and  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
Vicarage.  There  he  had  his  own  parlor  looking  into  the 
orchard  —  a  room  full  of  many  giracracks  —  for  the  so- 
licitor was  something  of  a  mechanician  —  and  had  a  box 
of  tools,  by  means  of  which,  he  bodied  forth  many  things 
unknown,  and  invented  very  extraordinary  pieces  of  orna- 
mental furniture.  Few  men  made  angling  rods  better 
than  he  ;  and  he  had  been  engaged  for  nearly  three  years 
on  a  fiddle,  which  it  seemed  likely  he  would  leave  in  an 
unfinished  state.  But  Brathwaite  Colinson  had  a  heart 
as  warmly  affectionate  as  when  he  left  Ellesmere  fifty 
years  ago  in  a  suit  of  country  gray  ;  and  although  he  had 
loved  to  accumulate  money,  he  himself  now  rejoiced  to 
feel  that  he  was  no  miser,  and  determined  to  make  his 
nephew,  Miles,  independent  before  his  marriage.  At  the 
very  first  sight  of  Lucy  Forester,  his  heart  was  more  than 
ever  expanded  with  an  emotion  of  permanent  generosity, 
and  he  loved  her  as  well  as  his  own  niece  Ruth. 

But  although  Oldfield  had  seemed  a  dull  residence  to 
an  old  bachelor  like  the  solicitor,  it  was  in  truth  one  of 
the  most  cheerful  places  imaginable,  and  the  most  beauti- 


THE    FOKESTEIiS.  "2/7 

fill  too  ill  all  Ellesmere.  The  house  seemed  to  be  situa- 
ted low,  for  it  was  surrounded  by  knolls,  rocks,  hills,  and 
mountains  ;  but  it  in  fact  stood  at  a  considerable  eleva- 
tion above  the  stream ;  and  a  sloping  lawn  carried  the 
eye  gently  down  to  a  waterfall  —  for  the  close  nibbling 
sheep  had  made  a  lawn  of  a  field,  whose  daisies  and  clover 
had  not  been  disturbed  by  *he  plough  in  man's  memory, 
although  ridges  were  still  visible.  Brathwaite  Colinson 
loved  too  well  the  picturesque  architecture  of  the  West- 
moreland cottages,  to  build  on  his  farm  of  Oldfield  a 
town  house,  or  suburban  box,  or  rural  villa.  He  had  only 
to  look  at  the  Vicarage  itself,  and  an  edifice  rose  up, 
another  and  the  same,  with  such  varieties,  as  imagination, 
in  this  case  little  more  than  memory,  easily  created. 
The  roof  might  almost  bo  said  to  undulate,  when  the  eye 
looked  down  on  its  angular  and  irregular  terraces  —  lat- 
ticed windows  peeped  out  unexpectedly,  each  upon  its 
own  home  view  or  far  mountain  prospect —  and  the  round 
tall  chimneys  carried  the  smoke  well  up  an)ong  the  trees, 
that,  in  a  year  or  two,  must  be  felled,  else  they  would  in- 
fallibly overshadow  the  house  in  the  strongest  sunshine. 
During  each  of  the  years  that  the  Foresters  had  lived 
at  Bracken  Braes,  some  small  new  article  of  furniture 
had  crept  into  the  house;  so  that,  at  an  expense  quite  im 
perceptible — even  to  them  who  were  almost  poor  —  it 
was,  within,  like  the  ornamented  cottage  of  some  tasteful 
man  of  fortune.  Lucy  had  the  whole  furnishing  of  Old- 
field  left  entirely  to  her  own  judgment ;  and,  on  consult- 
ing her  lover,  was  pleased  to  be  told,  "make  it  as  like  as 
you  can  to  Bracken  Braes."  But  this  Lucy  did  not  wish 
altogether  to  do  ;  for  she  loved  the  old,  glossy,  dark  oak- 
wood  furniture  of  the  Westmoreland  houses,  with  all  its 
ancient  and  not  inelegant  carved  work,  and,  fond  as  she 
was  of  Scotland,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  she  did  not 
forget  that  the  taste  and  imagination  of  every  one  are 
formed  in  those  delightful  days,  when  every  household 
object  has  a  charm  which  will  belong  forever  to  all  that 
is  peculiar  to  the  country  where  Ave  were  born  and  passed 
our  youth. 

24 


278  THE    FORESTERS. 

Ruth  Coliiison  was  not.  to  be,  as  she  had  raslily  prom- 
ised, bridesmaid  to  Lucy  Forester  ;  and  for  the  best  of 
all  reasons  —  she  was  to  be  married  herself,  on  the  same 
day,  to  Captain  Marshall  of  Seathwaite  Hall,  Ullswater. 
Well  did  Lucy  yet  remember  his  kind  and  manly  coun- 
tenance, and  that  too  of  his  pretty  sister,  the  joyful  Aga- 
tha. Agatha  was  now  already  engaged  to  be  brides-maid 
to  Ruth;  and  Lucy  had,  therefore,  in  that  extremity,  to 
apply  to  Ellinor  Elleray  of  Rydal,  half-afraid  —  and  not 
more  than  half-afraid  —  that  her  own  beauty  might  be 
eclipsed  by  that  celebrated  May-day  dueen. 


CHAPTER    L. 

Ellesmere  had  dawned  forth  into  faint  and  softest 
beauty,  "  under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn,"  as  the 
dewy  hours  melted  away  before  the  bolder  light ;  the 
woods  and  groves  were  all  crowned  with  their  green  and 
yellow  glories  ;  and,  by  ten  o'clock  —  the  appointed  time 
for  the  marriage  party  to  leave  the  Vicarage  and  proceed 
to  the  chapel  —  all  nature  was  rejoicing  in  a  summer 
forenoon,  as  bright,  blue,  and  cloudless  as  ever  shone  over 
heaven. 

There  had,  for  more  than  one  hour,  been  a  pleasant 
agitation  at  the  heart  of  the  Vicarage.  Not  a  few  hands 
had  been  busily  and  tenderly  engaged  in  adorning  the 
the  brides.  That  duty  had  been  left  to  the  young.  Agnes 
and  the  vicar's  wife  sat  with  their  husbands;  while  Aunt 
Isobel  and  the  old  solicitor  were  strolling  in  the  orchard. 
How  blessed  was  the  composure  of  this  solemn  morn  ! 
Two  young,  innocent,  and  happy  creatures  were  about  to 
enter  on  the  paths  of  a  new  life.  Some  troubles  must 
attend  those  paths  —  many  might  infest  them  ;  but  when 
Lucy  and  Ruth  appeared   in  their  white  bridal   dresses. 


THE    FORESTERS.  279 

simple  as  simple  might  be,  yet  not  without  their  appro- 
priate ornaments,  the  hearts  of  their  parents  burned  within 
them,  and  all  the  future  seemed  full  of  sunshine.  Michael 
would  fain  have  beheld  his  Lucy — grateful  would  he 
have  been  to  Heaven  for  one  glimpse  of  vision  —  but  that 
was  a  transient  wish  of  exceeding  love,  and,  kissing  her 
cheek  as  she  sat  on  the  same  chair,  her  blind  father  was 
satisfied. 

The  marriage  party  were  just  about  to  leave  the  Vicar- 
age, when  all  the  dogs  about  the  place,  no  small  number, 
including  several  nondescripts  belonging  to  the  solicitor, 
set  up  a  barking,  that  was  answered  by  a  general  caw 
from  the  rooks  on  the  Elm  Grove.  The  narrow  avenue, 
or  approach,  was  not  formed  for  such  splendid  equipage 
as  that  which  now  appeared  at  the  gallop.  The  kine 
stared  and  wondered  from  beyond  the  high  stone  wall, 
or  scampered  off  unwieldily  in  distant  imitation  of  the 
motions  of  the  four  beautiful  blood  horses  that  wafted 
along  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst;  while  wide  open  eyes,  from 
kitchen,  byre,  and  barn  door,  devoured  the  miraculous 
spectacle.  A  stronger  sensation  could  not  have  been 
produced  by  the  descent  of  the  grand  coronation  bal- 
loon. 

The  Lady  of  the  Hirst,  now  no  more  Emma  Cranstoun, 
descended  gracefully  from  her  carriage,  assisted  by  her 
husband,  Edward  Ellis,  and  embraced  Lucy  Forester. 
Lucy  had  written  to  her  as  soon  as  she  had  fixed  her 
marriage  day;  and  the  lady,  being  on  her  own  bridal 
tour,  had  come  to  grace  the  nuptials.  But  no  time  was 
to  be  lost;  for  the  chapel  bell,  so  calm  and  clear  was  the 
atmosphere,  was  absolutely  heard  tinkling  with  joy  far 
away  up  the  glen  ;  not  a  few  flags  were  seen  raised  up 
over  the  tops  of  cottages,  in  honor,  probably,  of  the  gal- 
lant captain ;  and  now  and  then  was  heard  a  discharge 
of  small  artillery,  borrowed  for  the  occasion  from  Bow- 
ness  and  Lowood,  whose  tourists,  for  one  day,  would 
be  cheated  out  of  their  somewhat  extravagant  echoes. 
The  Lady  of  the  Hirst  —  for  so  let  her  still  be  called  — 
took  her  beloved  Lucy  into  her  landau,  along  with  her 
bridesmaid,  Ellinor  of  Rydal,  and  meek  Mary  Morrison, 


2bO  THE    FORESTERS. 

the  faithful  and  aifectionate,  whom  she  had  recognised 
and  siiluted  with  her  most  gracious  smiles.  Other  vehi- 
cles, neat  enough  in  their  way,  formed  in  the  rear;  and, 
although  the  road  to  the  chapel  was  rather  rough  and 
angular,  and  at  many  turns  seemingly  shut  up  by  old 
ivied  pollard  stumps,  or  moss-grown  walls,  built  up,  cairn- 
like, of  stones  cleared  from  the  fields  they  enclosed,  yet 
the  chapel  was  soon  gained  in  safety,  and,  in  about  one 
hour,  Lucy  and  Ruth  returned  to  the  Vicarage,  as  Mrs. 
Colinson  of  Oldfield,  Ellesmere,  and  Mrs.  Marshall  of 
Seathwaite  Hall,  Uilswater. 

Two  or  three  hours  of  quiet  converse  passed  away, 
during  which  Miles  Colinson  cheerfully  resigned  his  Lu- 
cy to  the  Lady  of  the  Hirst ;  but  as  it  was  not  a  very  short, 
and  by  no  means  a  very  level  road  to  Seathwaite  Hall, 
over  Kirkston  and  Place  Fell,  an  entertainment  which,  in 
deference  and  respect  to  the  fashionable  world,  let  be 
called  a  Dejeunc  a  lafourchette,  was  with  no  delay  spread 
below  the  yew  tree.  The  vicar's  wife  and  Agnes  sat  to- 
gether at  the  head  —  the  vicar  and  Michael  Forester  at 
the  foot  of  the  table.  The  blushing  Lucy  and  Ruth  were 
seated  beside  their  respective  bridesmaids ;  and  Mary 
Morrison  was  not  far  from  the  side  of  her  who  was  dear- 
est and  kindest  on  the  earth  to  that  widow  and  orphan. 
The  bridegrooms  assumed  already  a  somewhat  important 
air,  and  endeavored  to  seem  as  becomingly  composed  as 
Edward  Ellis,  who  was  now  quite  an  old  married  man  ; 
for  the  beauty  of  his  bride  had  disturbed  the  Sabbath  de- 
votion of  two  congregations  —  one  in  town,  and  the  other 
in  country.  Uncle  Brathwaite  and  Aunt  Isobel  were  the 
merriest  of  the  company. 

But  who  were  those  three  humble  looking  persons  en- 
tering the  gate,  while  a  young  woman  advanced  a  little 
before  the  others,  with  familiar  but  not  obtrusive  steps, 
towards  the  Vicarage?  "Good  heavens!"  cried  Mary 
Morrison,  "  can  that  be  Martha,  and  Hamish,  and  Flora 
Eraser  !  "  It  was  so  indeed  —  and  Martha  had  an  infant 
at  her  bosom  !  The  emigrants  had  returned  from  Cana- 
da;  but  old  Donald  Eraser  was  not  with  them:   They 


THE    FOKESTERS.  281 

had  left  his  bones  in  a  burial-place  in  the  woods.  Mar- 
tha soon  told  her  story.  The  brother  whom  Donald  had 
gone  to  visit,  had  died  soon  after  the  old  soldier,  and  left 
property  to  Hamish  and  Flora  worth  nearly  three  hundred 
pounds.  With  such  a  sum  they  resolved  to  return  to 
their  dear  Highlands;  and  having  landed  at  Liverpool, 
Martha  could  not  think  of  passing  on  to  Scotland  without 
stepping  aside  for  a  day  to  see  the  old  people  with  whom 
she  had  formerly  lived,  and  her  friends  at  the  Vicarage. 
Had  such  a  meeting  as  this  been  described  in  a  novel,  it 
would  no  doubt  have  been  criticised  as  too  improbable; 
but  Martha  and  Lucy  had  each  her  own  romance  of  real 
life,  and  thus  far  it  had  been,  although  sometimes  a  little 
dim  or  dark,  on  the  whole  not  undelightful.  Martha  was 
happy  at  the  thought  of  passing  her  days  in  the  Highlands, 
somewhere  in  the  Glen  of  Dee,  or  in  Glen  Tilt,  or  on  the 
banks  of  the  Bruar,  or  by  the  waterfalls  of  the  Tummel, 
or  the  sylvan  shores  of  Loch  Rannoch.  Those  names 
she  pronounced  readily,  and  even  with  something  of  a 
Highland  accent  —  for  her  husband  Hamish  had  taught 
her  some  Gaelic,  and  in  that  language  she  now  hushed 
her  little  Canadian,  awaking  from  his  dream  in  her  bo- 
som. 

The  Lady  of  the  Hirst  bade  them  all  farewell,  not 
without  Miles  Colinson's  promise  to  bring  his  wife  to 
Holylee  next  summer.  Captain  Marshall  bore  off  his 
Ruth  in  triumph;  and  Miles  and  Lucy,  attended  by  Ma- 
ry Morrison,  had  walked  away  unnoticed  to  their  own 
house  at  Oldfield.  The  emigrants  were  most  welcome 
indeed  at  the  Vicarage,  in  the  silence  of  that  evening. 
Martha  had  not  a  little  to  tell,  and  Aunt  Isobel  did  not 
let  her  rest  a  minute,  with  questions  put  half  in  kindness 
and  half  in  curiosity  —  since  the  old  lady,  in  the  perfect 
satisfaction  of  her  spirit,  could  afford  to  forget  her  Lucy, 
and  keenly  interest  herself  about  Martha's  past  and  fu- 
ture concerns  ;  for  short  as  her  time  was  now  to  be  in 
this  world,  she  still  regarded  those  whose  term  there 
be  might  a  prolonged  one,  with  the  unabated  warmth  of 
a  heart  that  could  be  made  cold  only  in  the  grave. 


282  THE    FORESTERS. 

As  for  Michael  and  Agnes,  they  retired  that  evening 
sooner  than  usual  to  their  own  room.  They  had  not  lost 
a  daughter,  but  they  had  found  a  son.  Should  Provi- 
dence permit,  the  families  at  Oldfield  and  Bracken  Braes 
were  to  visit  each  other  year  about ;  and  to  that  Provi- 
dence, whatever  might  be  its  decrees,  they  knelt  down 
in  prayer  as  happy  as  any  of  its  creatures  below  heaven. 


J 


h 


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